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THE    ROAD    TO   FRONTENAC 


"  Half  way  down  the  steps  was  a   double  file  of  Indians  chained 
two  and  two." 


FRONTENAC 


BY 
SAMUEL    MERWIN 


NEW    YORK 
DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE   &   CO. 

1903 


P^ 
OCI 


toexcba.  • 
ifc  1> 


STRATFORD  &  GRE^: 

642  Sovilh  fi^'ii 


COPYRIGHT,  1901,  BY  FRANK  LESLIE  PUBLISHING  HOUSE. 
COPYRIGHT,  igoi,  BY  DOUBLBDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

Captain  Menard  has  a  Lazy  Day i 

CHAPTER   II. 
The  Maid 19 

CHAPTER   III. 
Mademoiselle  eats  her  Breakfast 38 

CHAPTER   IV. 
The  Long  Arrow 61 

CHAPTER  V. 
Danton  breaks  Out 83 

CHAPTER   VI. 
The  Fight  at  La  Gallette 103 

CHAPTER  VII. 
A  Compliment  for  Menard          ......     127 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Maid  makes  New  Friends 147 

CHAPTER   IX. 

The  Word  of  an  Onondaga 169 

v 


213715$ 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X. 

PAGE 

A  Night  Council I91 

CHAPTER   XI. 
The  Big  Throat  Speaks 212 

CHAPTER  XII. 
The  Long  House 235 

CHAPTER   XIII. 
The  Voice  of  the  Great  Mountain 254 

CHAPTER   XIV. 
Where  the  Dead  Sit 272 

CHAPTER  XV. 
The  Bad  Doctor 293 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
At  the  Long  Lake       .- 3H 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
Northward 337 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
The  Only  Way  .        . 359 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Frontenac 3^3 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Half  way  down  the  steps  was  a  double  file  of  In- 
dians, chained  two  and  two  .  .  Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

Sitting  on  a  bundle  was  a  girl  ....  perhaps  eighteen 

or  nineteen  years  old          .         .         .         .         -36 

The  Indians  walked  silently  to  the  fire      .         .         .64 

Menard  stood  ....  smiling  with  the  same  look  of 
scorn  he  had  worn  ....  when  they  led  him  to 
the  torture  .......  256 


The   Road   to    Frontenac. 

CHAPTER   I. 

CAPTAIN    MENARD    HAS    A    LAZY    DAY. 

CAPTAIN  DANIEL  MENARD  leaned 
^— ^  against  the  parapet  at  the  outer  edge  of 
the  citadel  balcony.  The  sun  was  high,  the 
air  clear  and  still.  Beneath  him,  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliff,  nestled  the  Lower  Town,  a  strip 
of  shops  and  houses,  hemmed  in  by  the  pali- 
sades and  the  lower  battery.  The  St.  Law- 
rence flowed  by,  hardly  stirred  by  the  light 
breeze.  Out  in  the  channel,  beyond  the  mer- 
chantmen, lay  three  ships  of  war,  Le  Fourgon, 
Le  Profond,  and  La  Perle,  each  with  a  cluster 
of  supply  boats  at  her  side;  and  the  stir  and 
rattle  of  tackle  and  chain  coming  faintly  over 
the  water  from  Le  Fourgon  told  that  she  would 
sail  for  France  on  the  morrow,  if  God  should 
choose  to  send  the  wind. 

Looking  almost  straight  down,  Menard  could 
see  the  long  flight  of  steps  that  climbed  from 


2  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

the  settlement  on  the  water  front  to  the  nobler 
city  on  the  heights.  Halfway  down  the  steps 
was  a  double  file  of  Indians,  chained  two  and 
two,  and  guarded  by  a  dozen  regulars  from  his 
own  company.  He  watched  them  until  they 
reached  the  bottom  and  disappeared  behind 
the  row  of  buildings  that  ended  on  the  wharf 
in  Patron's  trading  store.  In  a  moment  they 
reappeared,  and  marched  across  the  wharf, 
toward  the  two  boats  from  Le  Fourgon  that 
awaited  them.  Even  from  the  height,  Menard 
could  see  that  the  soldiers  had  a  stiff  task  to 
control  their  prisoners.  After  one  of  the  boats, 
laden  deep,  had  shoved  off,  there  was  a  struggle, 
and  the  crowd  of  idlers  that  had  gathered 
scattered  suddenly.  Two  Indians  had  broken 
away,  and  were  running  across  the  wharf,  with 
a  little  knot  of  soldiers  close  on  their  heels. 
One  of  the  soldiers,  leaping  forward,  brought 
the  stock  'of  his  musket  down  on  the  head  of 
the  nearer  Indian.  The  fugitive  went  down, 
dragging  with  him  his  companion,  who  tugged 
desperately  at  the  chain.  A  soldier  drew  his 
knife,  and  cut  off  the  dead  Indian's  arm  close 
to  the  iron  wristlet,  breaking  the  bone  with 
his  foot.  Then  they  led  back  the  captive  and 
tumbled  him  into  the  boat,  with  the  hand  of 


CAPTAIN    MENARD    HAS   A   LAZY   DAY.         3 

his  comrade  dangling  at  the  end  of  the  chain. 
The  incident  had  excited  the  soldiers,  and  they 
kicked  and  pounded  the  prisoners.  A  crowd 
gathered  about  the  body  on  the  wharf,  the 
bolder  ones  snatching  at  his  beads  and  wam- 
pum belt. 

Menard  raised  his  eyes  to  the  lands  across 
the  river  and  to  the  white  cloud-puffs  above. 
After  months  of  camp  and  canoe,  sleeping  in 
snow  and  rain,  and  by  day  paddling,  poling, 
and  wading,  —  never  a  new  face  among  the 
grumbling  soldiers  or  the  stolid  prisoners,  — 
after  this,  Quebec  stood  for  luxury  and  the 
pleasant  demoralization  of  good  living.  He 
liked  the  noise  of  passing  feet,  the  hail  of  good- 
will from  door  to  door,  the  plodding  shop- 
keepers and  artisans,  the  comfortable  priests  in 
brown  and  gray. 

The  sound  of  oars  brought  his  eyes  again 
to  the  river.  The  two  boats  with  their  loads 
of  redskins  were  passing  the  merchantmen  that 
lay  between  the  men-of-war  and  the  city.  On 
the  wharf,  awaiting  a  second  trip,  was  a  huddled 
group  of  prisoners.  Menard's  face  clouded  as 
he  watched  them.  Men  of  his  experience  were 
wondering  what  effect  this  new  plan  of  the 
Governor's  would  have  upon  the  Iroquois, 


4  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

Capturing  a  hunting  party  by  treachery  and 
shipping  them  off  to  the  King's  galleys  was  a 
bold  stroke,  —  too  bold,  perhaps.  Governor 
Frontenac  would  never  have  done  this ;  he 
knew  the  Iroquois  temper  too  well.  Governor 
la  Barre,  for  all  his  bluster,  would  not  have 
dared.  It  was  certain  that  this  new  governor, 
Denonville,  was  not  a  coward ;  but  as  Menard 
reflected,  going  back  over  his  own  fifteen  years 
of  frontier  life,  he  knew  that  this  policy  of 
brute  force  would  be  sorely  tested  by  the  tact 
and  intrigue  of  the  Five  Nations.  His  own 
part  in  the  capture  little  disturbed  him.  He 
had  obeyed  orders.  He  had  brought  the  band 
to  the  citadel  at  Quebec  without  losing  a  man 
(saving  the  poor  devil  who  had  strangled  him- 
self with  his  own  thongs  at  La  Gallette). 

To  such  men  as  Menard,  whose  lives  were 
woven  closely  into  the  fabric  of  New  France, 
the  present  condition  was  clear.  Many  an 
evening  he  had  spent  with  Major  d'Orvilliers, 
at  Fort  Frontenac,  in  talking  over  the  recent 
years  of  history  into  which  their  two  names 
and  their  two  lives  had  gone  so  deeply.  Until 
his  recall  to  France  in  1682,  Governor  Fron- 
tenac had  been  for  ten  years  building  up  in  the 
Iroquois  heart  a  fear  and  awe  of  Onontio,  the 


CAPTAIN    MENARD   HAS   A    LAZY   DAY.         5 

Great  Father,  at  Quebec.  D'Orvilliers  knew 
that  period  the  better,  for  Menard  had  not 
come  over  (from  the  little  town  of  his  birth, 
in  Picardy)  until  Frontenac's  policy  was  well 
established.  But  Menard  had  lived  hard  and 
rapidly  during  his  first  years  in  the  province, 
and  he  was  a  stern-faced  young  soldier  when 
he  stood  on  the  wharf,  hat  in  hand  and  sword 
to  chin,  watching  New  France's  greatest  gov- 
ernor sitting  erect  in  the  boat  that  bore  him 
away  from  his  own.  Menard  had  been  initiated 
by  a  long  captivity  among  the  Onondagas,  and 
had  won  his  first  commission  by  gallant  action 
under  the  Governor's  eye. 

In  those  days  no  insult  went  unpunished ; 
no  tribe  failed  twice  in  its  obligations.  The 
circle  of  French  influence  was  firmly  extended 
around  the  haunts  of  the  Iroquois  in  New  York 
and  along  the  Ohio.  From  Frontenac,  on  Lake 
Ontario,  north  to  Hudson's  Bay,  was  French 
land.  To  the  westward,  along  the  Ottawa 
River,  and  skirting  the  north  shore  of  Lake 
Huron  to  Michillimackinac  and  Green  Bay, 
were  the  strong  French  allies,  the  Hurons, 
Ottawas,  Nipissings,  Kiskagons,  Sacs,  Foxes, 
and  Mascoutins.  Down  at  the  lower  end  of 
Lake  Michigan,  at  the  Chicagou  and  St.  Joseph 


6  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

portages,  were  the  Miamis ;  and  farther  still, 
the  Illinois,  whom  the  Sieur  de  la  Salle  and 
Henri  de  Tonty  had  drawn  close  under  the 
arm  of  New  France. 

This  chain  of  allies,  with  Du  Luth's  fort  at 
Detroit  and  a  partial  control  over  Niagara,  had 
given  New  France  nearly  all  the  fur  trade  of  the 
Great  Lakes.  The  English  Governor  Dongan, 
of  New  York,  dared  not  to  fight  openly  for  it, 
but  he  armed  the  Iroquois  and  set  them  against 
the  French.  Menard  had  laughed  when  the 
word  came,  in  1684,  from  Father  de  Lamber- 
ville,  whose  influence  worked  so  far  toward 
keeping  the  Iroquois  quiet,  that  Dongan  had 
pompously  set  up  the  arms  of  his  king  in  each 
Iroquois  village,  even  dating  them  back  a  year 
to  make  his  claim  the  more  secure.  Every  old 
soldier  knew  that  more  than  decrees  and  coats 
of  arms  were  needed  to  win  the  Five  Nations. 

When  La  Barre  succeeded  Frontenac,  lack- 
ing the  tact  and  firmness  which  had  established 
Frontenac's  name  among  foes  and  allies  alike, 
he  fell  back  upon  bluster  (to  say  nothing  of  the 
common  talk  in  Quebec  that  he  had  set  out  to 
build  up  his  private  fortune  by  the  fur  trade). 
Learning  that,  by  his  grant  of  Fort  Frontenac, 
La  Salle  was  entitled  to  a  third  of  the  trade 


CAPTAIN   MENARD   HAS  A   LAZY  DAY.         7 

that  passed  through  it,  he  seized  the  fort.  He 
weakened  La  Salle's  communications  so  greatly 
that  La  Salle  and  Tonty  could  not  make  good 
their  promises  of  French  protection  to  the  Illi- 
nois. This  made  it  possible  for  the  Iroquois, 
unhindered,  to  lay  waste  the  Illinois  country. 
By  equally  shortsighted  methods,  La  Barre  so 
weakened  the  ties  that  bound  the  northern 
allies,  and  so  increased  the  arrogance  of  the 
Iroquois,  that  when  Governor  Denonville  took 
up  the  task,  most  of  the  allies,  always  looking 
to  the  stronger  party,  were  on  the  point  of 
going  over  to  the  Iroquois.  This  would  give 
the  fur  trade  to  the  English,  and  ruin  New 
France.  Governor  Dongan  seized  the  moment 
to  promise  better  bargains  for  the  peltry  than 
the  French  could  offer.  It  remained  for  the 
new  governor  to  make  a  demonstration  which 
would  establish  firmly  the  drooping  prestige  of 
New  France. 

Now  the  spring  of  1687  was  just  ending. 
Since  February  it  had  been  spread  abroad, 
from  the  gulf  seignories  to  Fort  Frontenac, 
that  preparations  were  making  for  a  great 
campaign  against  the  Iroquois.  Champigny, 
the  new  Intendant,  had  scoured  the  country  for 
supplies,  and  now  was  building  bateaux  and 


8  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

buying  canoes.  Regulars  and  militia  were 
drilling  into  the  semblance  of  an  army,  and 
palisades  and  defences  were  everywhere  built 
or  strengthened,  that  the  home  guard  might  keep 
the  province  secure  during  the  long  absence  of 
the  troops.  Menard  wondered,  as  he  snapped 
bits  of  stone  off  the  parapet,  and  watched  the 
last  boatload  of  galley  slaves  embarking  at  the 
wharf,  whether  the  Governor's  plans  would  carry. 
He  would  undoubtedly  act  with  precision,  he 
would  follow  every  detail  of  campaigning  to  the 
delight  of  the  tacticians,  he  would  make  a  great 
splash,  —  and  then  ?  How  about  the  wily  chiefs 
of  the  Senecas  and  Onondagas  and  Mohawks  ? 
They  had  hoodwinked  La  Barre  into  signing 
the  meanest  treaty  that  ever  disgraced  New 
France.  Would  Denonville,  too,  blind  himself 
to  the  truth  that  shrewd  minds  may  work  be- 
hind painted  faces  ? 

But  above  all  else,  Menard  was  a  soldier. 
He  snapped  another  bit  of  stone,  and  gave  up 
the  problem.  He  would  fight  at  the  Governor's 
orders,  retreat  at  the  Governor's  command,  — 
to  the  Governor  would  belong  the  credit  or  the 
blame.  Of  only  one  thing  was  he  sure,  —  his 
own  half  hundred  men  should  fight  as  they  had 
always  fought,  and  should  hold  their  posts  to 


CAPTAIN    MENARD   HAS  A   LAZY   DAY.        9 

the  end.  There  ended  his  responsibility.  And 
did  not  the  good  Fathers  say  that  God  was 
watching  over  New  France  ? 

Meantime  the  breath  of  summer  was  in  the 
air.  The  spring  campaign  was  over  for  Menard. 
So  he  rested  both  elbows  on  the  parapet,  and 
wondered  how  long  the  leaves  had  been  out  in 
Picardy.  Over  beyond  the  ships  and  the  river 
were  -waves  of  the  newest  green,  instead  of  the 
deep,  rich  colour  and  the  bloom  of  full  life  he 
had  left  behind  at  Fort  Frontenac  but  two 
weeks  back.  The  long  journey  down  the  St. 
Lawrence  had  seemed  almost  a  descent  into 
winter.  On  the  way  to  Quebec  every  day  and 
every  league  had  brought  fewer  blossoms.  Even 
Montreal,  sixty  leagues  to  the  south,  had  her 
summer  before  Quebec. 

On  the  wharf  below  him  the  crowd  were  still 
plucking  the  dead  Indian.  Menard  could  hear 
their  laughter  and  shouts.  Their  figures  were 
small  in  the  distance,  their  actions  grotesque. 
One  man  was  dancing,  brandishing  some  part 
of  the  Indian's  costume.  Menard  could  not 
distinguish  the  object  in  his  hand.  A  priest 
crossed  the  wharf  and  elbowed  into  the  crowd. 
For  the  moment  he  was  lost  in  the  rabble,  but 
shortly  the  shouting  quieted  and  the  light- 


io  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

headed  fellows  crowded  into  a  close  group. 
Probably  the  priest  was  addressing  them.  Soon 
the  fringe  of  the  crowd  thinned,  then  the  others 
walked  quietly  away.  When  at  last  the  priest 
was  left  alone  by  the  mutilated  Indian,  he  knelt, 
and  for  a  space  was  motionless. 

The  idleness  of  reaction  was  on  Menard. 
He  leaned  on  the  parapet,  hardly  stirring,  while 
the  priest  went  on  his  way  across  the  square 
and  began- toiling  up  the  steps.  When  he  was 
halfway  up,  Menard  recognized  him  for  Claude 
de  Casson,  an  old  Jesuit  of  the  Iroquois  mission 
at  Sault  St.  Francis  Xavier,  near  Montreal. 
Menard  strolled  through  the  citadel  to  the 
square,  and,  meeting  the  Father,  walked  with 
him. 

"  Well,  Father  Claude,  you  are  a  long  way 
from  your  flock." 

"  Yes,  Captain  Menard,  I  came  with  the  rela- 
tions. I  have  been  "  —  Father  Claude  was 
blown  from  his  climb,  and  he  paused,  wiping 
the  sweat  from  his  lean  face  —  "I  have  been 
grieved  by  a  spectacle  in  the  Lower  Town. 
Some  wretches  had  killed  an  Onondaga  with 
the  brutality  of  his  own  tribe,  and  were  robbing 
him.  Are  such  acts  permitted  to-day  in  Que- 
bec, M'sieu?" 


CAPTAIN    MENARD    HAS   A   LAZY   DAY.      n 

"  He  was  a  prisoner  escaping  from  the  sol- 
diers. It  must  be  a  full  year  since  I  last  saw 
you,  Father.  I  hope  you  bring  a  good  record 
to  the  College." 

"  The  best  since  our  founding,  M'sieu." 

"  Is  there  no  word  in  the  relations  from  the 
New  York  missions  ?  " 

"  Yes>  M'sieu.  Brother  de  Lamberville  brings 
glorious  word  from  the  Mohawks.  Twenty- 
three  complete  conversions." 

"  You  say  he  brings  this  word  ?  "  Menard's 
brows  came  together.  "  Then  he  has  come  up 
to  Montreal  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  is  true,  then,  that  the  Iroquois  have  word 
of  our  plans  ?  " 

"  It  would  seem  so.  He  said  that  a  war 
party  which  started  weeks  ago  for  the  Illinois 
country  had  been  recalled.  A  messenger  was 
sent  out  but  a  few  days  before  he  came  away." 

Menard  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"  This  word  should  go  to  the  Commandant," 
he  said.  "  How  about  your  Indians  at  the  Mis- 
sion, Father  Claude?  They  have  not  French 
hearts." 

"  Ah,  but  I  am  certain,  M'sieu,  they  would 
not  break  faith  with  us." 


12  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  You  can  trust  them  ? " 

"  They  are  Christians,  M'sieu." 

"  Yes,  but  they  are  Iroquois.  Have  none 
of  them  gone  away  since  this  news  reached 
Quebec  ? " 

"  None,  save  one  poor  wretch  whose  drunk- 
enness long  ago  caused  us  to  give  up  hope, 
though  I  —  " 

"  What  became  of  him  ?  Where  did  he 
go?" 

"  He  wandered  away  in  a  drunken  fit." 

"  And  you  have  not  heard  from  him  since  ? " 

"  No,  M'sieu.  He  was  Teganouan,  an  Onon- 
daga." 

"  You  would  do  well,  Father,  if  I  may  suggest, 
to  take  what  news  you 'may  have  to  the  Com- 
mandant. You  and  I  know  the  importance  of 
trifles  at  such  a  time  as  this.  How  long  do 
you  remain  in  Quebec  ?  " 

"  A  few  days  only,  unless  there  should  be  work 
for  me  here." 

"  Do  you  return  then  to  Montreal  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  until  I  have  made  my  report 
and  delivered  the  relations.  Brother  de  Lam- 
berville  thinks  it  important  that  word  should  go 
to  all  those  who  are  now  labouring  in  the  Iro- 
quois villages.  If  they  remain  after  the  cam- 


CAPTAIN    MENARD   HAS  A    LAZY   DAY.      13 

paign  is  fairly  started,  their  lives  may  be  in 
danger." 

"  You  think  it  necessary  to  go  yourself  ? " 

"  What  else,  M'sieu  ?  This  is  not  the  time 
to  trust  too  freely  an  Indian  runner.  And  a 
layman  might  never  get  through  alive.  My 
habit  would  be  the  best  safeguard." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right.  If  I  should  not 
see  you  again,  I  must  ask  you  to  convey  my 
respect  to  your  colleagues  at  the  Mission.  I 
shall  probably  be  here  until  the  campaign  is 
fairly  started;  perhaps  longer.  Already  I  am 
tasting  the  luxury  of  idleness." 

"  A  dangerous  luxury,  M'sieu.  If  I  might 
be  permitted  to  advise  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Father,  —  I  know,.  I  know.  But 
what  is  the  use?  You  are  a  priest,  I  am  a 
soldier.  Yours  is  penance/ mine  is  fighting; 
yours  is  praying,  mine  is  singing,  —  every  man 
to  his  own.  And  when  you  priests  have  got 
your  pagans  converted,  we  soldiers  will  clean 
up  the  mess  with  our  muskets.  And  now, 
Father,  good  day,  and  may  God  be  with  you." 

The  priest's  face  was  unmoved  as  he  looked 
after  the  retreating  figure.  He  had  watched 
Menard  grow  from  a  roistering  lieutenant  into  a 
rigid  captain,  and  he  knew  his  temper  too  well 


i4  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

to  mind  the  flicks  of  banter.  But  before 
the  soldier  had  passed  from  earshot,  he  called 
after  him. 

Menard  turned  back.  "  What  now,  good 
Father  ?  A  mass  for  my  soul,  or  a  last  absolu- 
tion before  I  plunge  into  my  term  of  dissolute 
idleness  ?  " 

"Neither,  my  son,"  replied  the  priest,  smiling. 
"  Is  any  of  your  idleness  to  be  shared  with 
another  ? " 

"  Certainly,  Father." 

"  I  am  bringing  a  picture  to  the  College." 

"  I  have  no  money,  Father.  I  should  be  a 
sorry  patron." 

"  No,  no,  M'sieu ;  it  is  not  a  patron  I  seek. 
It  is  the  advice  of  one  who  has  seen  and  judged 
the  master  work  of  Paris.  The  painting  has 
been  shown  to  none  as  yet." 

"  But  you  have  seen  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have  seen  it.  Come  with  mev 
M'sieu  ;  it  is  at  my  room." 

They  walked  together  to  the  cell,  six  feet  long 
by  five  wide,  where  Father  Claude  slept  when  in 
Quebec.  It  was  bare  of  all  save  a  hard  cot.  A 
bale,  packed  in  rough  cloth  and  tied  with  rope, 
lay  on  the  bed.  Father  Claude  opened  the 
bundle,  while  Menard  leaned  against  the  wall. 


CAPTAIN   MENARD   HAS  A   LAZY  DAY.      15 

and  drew  out  his  few  personal  belongings  and 
his  portable  altar  before  he  reached  the  flat, 
square  package  at  the  bottom.  There  was  a 
touch  of  colour  in  his  cheeks  and  a  nervousness 
in  the  movement  of  his  hands  as  he  untied  the 
flaxen  strings,  stripped  off  the  cloth,  and  held 
the  picture  up  to  Menard's  view. 

It  was  a  full-length  portrait  in  oil  of  a  young 
Indian  woman,  holding  a  small  cross  in  her 
right  hand,  and  gazing  at  it  with  bent  head. 
Her  left  hand  was  spread  upon  her  breast.  She 
wore  a  calico  chemise  reaching  below  her  knees, 
and  leggings,  and  moccasins.  A  heavy  robe 
was  thrown  over  the  top  of  her  head,  falling  on 
the  sides  and  back  to  within  a  foot  of  the  ground. 
In  the  middle  background  was  a  stream,  with 
four  Indians  in  a  canoe.  A  tiny  stone  chapel 
stood  on  the  bank  at  the  extreme  right. 

Father  Claude's  hand  trembled  as  he  sup- 
ported the  canvas  upon  the  cot,  and  his  eyes 
wavered  from  Menard  to  the  picture,  and  back 
again. 

"  It  is  not  altogether  completed,"  he  said, 
nervously.  "  Of  course  the  detail  will  be 
worked  out  more  fully,  and  the  cross  should 
be  given  a  warmer  radiance.  Perhaps  a  light 
showing  through  the  windows  of  the  chapel  —  " 


1 6  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  asked  Menard. 

"  It  is  Catherine  Outasoren,  the  Lily  of  the 
Onondagas,"  replied  the  priest ;  "  the  noblest 
woman  that  ever  rose  from  the  depths  of  Indian 
superstition." 

Menard's  eyes  rested  on  an  obscure  signature 
in  a  lower  corner,  "  C.  de  C." 

"  You  certainly  have  reason  to  be  proud  of 
the  work.  But  may  I  ask  about  the  perspec- 
tive? Should  the  maiden  appear  larger  than 
the  chapel  ? " 

The  priest  gazed  at  the  painting  with  an 
unsettled  expression. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  you  are  right, 
M'sieu.  At  any  rate  I  will  give  the  matter 
thought  and  prayer." 

"  And  the  Indians,"  Menard  questioned,  "  in 
the  canoe ;  are  they  coming  toward  the  chapel 
or  going  away  from  it?  It  seems  to  me  that 
any  doubt  on  that  point  should  be  removed." 

"Ah,"  said  the  priest;  "that  very  doubt  is 
allegorical.  It  typifies  the  workings  of  the 
human  mind  when  first  confronted  by  the 
truth.  When  the  seeker  first  beholds  the  light, 
as  shown  through  the  devotion  of  such  a 
woman  as  Catherine  Outasoren,  there  arises 
in  his  mind  —  " 


CAPTAIN    MENARD    HAS   A    LAZY   DAY.      17 

"  Very  true,  very  true  !  But  I  never  yet  have 
seen  a  canoe-load  of  Indians  in  doubt  whether 
they  were  moving  forward  or  backward." 

Father  Claude  held  the  canvas  at  arm's  length 
and  gazed  long  at  it. 

"  Tell  me,  M'sieu,"  he  said  at  last,  "  do  you 
think  it  deserving  of  a  place  in  the  College  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  see  why  not." 

"  And  you  think  I  would  be  justified  in  lay- 
ing a  request  before  the  Superior  ?  " 

Menard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  That  is  your  decision,  Father." 

"  I  never  can  fully  thank  you,  my  son,  for 
your  kindness  in  looking  on  my  humble  work. 
I  will  not  decide  to-day.  First  I  must  add  foli- 
age in  the  foreground.  And  I  will  give  it  my 
earnest  prayer." 

Menard  said  farewell  and  went  out,  leaving 
the  priest  gazing  at  the  picture.  He  strolled 
back  toward  the  citadel,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  greet  an  old  friend  or  a  chance  ac- 
quaintance. When  he  arrived  at  the  head- 
quarters in  the  citadel  he  found  Danton,  a 
brown-haired  young  lieutenant  of  engineers, 
gazing  at  a  heap  of  plans  and  other  papers 
on  the  table. 

"Well,  Captain   Menard,"  was  his  greeting, 


i8  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  I'd  give  half  of  last  year's  pay,  if  I  ever  get  it, 
to  feel  as  lazy  as  you  look." 

"  You  are  lazy  enough,"  growled  Menard. 

"  That  begs  the  question.  It  is  not  how  lazy 
a  man  is,  but  how  lazy  he  gets  a  chance  to  be." 

"  If  you'd  been  through  what  I  have  this 
spring,  you'd  deserve  a  rest." 

"You  must  have  had  a  stirring  time,"  said 
the  Lieutenant.  "  Major  Provost  has  promised 
to  let  me  go  out  with  the  line  when  the  cam- 
paign starts.  I've  not  had  a  brush  since  I 
came  over." 

Menard  gave  him  a  quizzical  smile  before  he 
replied,  "  You'll  get  brushes  enough." 

"  By  the  way,  the  Major  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Does  he  ?  "  said  Menard. 

He  lighted  his  short  pipe  with  a  coal  from 
the  fire  and  walked  out. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    MAID. 

J\  AENARD  did  not  go  at  once  to  see  Major 
*•  *  *  Provost,  the  Commandant.  He  had  al- 
ready handed  in  his  report  at  the  citadel.  It 
was  probable  that  this  was  some  new  work  for 
him.  He  had  just  settled  his  mind  to  the  pros- 
pect of  a  rest,  the  first  since  that  mad  holiday, 
seven  years  before,  when  word  had  come  that 
his  lieutenant's  commission  was  on  the  way. 
That  was  at  Three  Rivers.  He  wanted  to  idle, 
to  waste  a  few  weeks  for  the  sheer  delight  of 
extravagance,  but  his  blood  did  not  flow  more 
quickly  at  the  wish.  He  was  an  older  man  by 
a  score  of  years  —  or  was  it  only  seven  ? 

He  lingered  on  the  square.  The  black-eyed 
children,  mostly  dirty  and  ragged  (for  the  maids 
whom  the  King  had  sent  over  by  shiploads  to 
his  colonists  had  not  developed  into  the  most 
diligent  and  neat  housewives)  tumbled  about 
his  feet.  He  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into 

19 


20  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

their  play.  They  had  no  awe  of  his  uniform, 
for  it  was  worn  and  frayed.  He  had  not  yet 
taken  the  trouble  to  get  out  his  fresher  coat  and 
breeches  and  boots.  He  thought  of  this,  and 
was  again  amused.  It  was  another  sign  of  age. 
The  time  had  been  when  his  first  care  after 
arriving  in  Quebec  was  to  don  his  rich  house 
uniform  and  polished  scabbard,  and  step  gaily 
to  the  Major's  house  to  sun  himself  in  the  wel- 
come of  the  Major's  pretty  wife,  who  had  known 
his  uncle,  the  Sieur  de  Vauban,  at  La  Rochelle. 
Now  he  was  back  in  Quebec  from  months  on 
the  frontier,  he  was  summoned  to  the  Major's 
house,  and  yet  he  stayed  and  laughed  at  the 
children.  For  the  Major's  wife  was  older,  too, 
and  the  vivacity  of  her  youth  was  thinning  out 
and  uncovering  the  needle-like  tongue  beneath. 
A  slim  little  urchin  was  squirming  between 
his  boots,  with  a  pursuing  rabble  close  behind, 
and  the  Captain  had  to  take  hold  of  a  young 
tree  to  keep  his  feet.  He  turned  and  started  in 
pursuit  of  the  children,  but  caught  sight  of 
two  Ursuline  sisters  entering  the  square,  and 
straightened  himself.  After  all,  a  captain  is  a 
captain,  even  though  the  intoxication  of  spring 
be  in  him,  and  his  heart  struggling  to  clamber 
back  into  the  land  of  youth.  He  walked  on 


THE   MAID.  21 

across  the  square  and  down  the  street  to  the 
Major's  house. 

Major  Provost  welcomed  Menard  heartily, 
and  led  him  to  his  office.  "  We'll  have  our 
business  first,"  he  said,  "  and  get  it  done  with." 

Menard  settled  back  in  the  carved  oak  chair 
which  had  for  generations  been  a  member  of 
the  Major's  family.  The  light  mood  >had  left 
him.  Now  he  was  the  soldier,  brusque  in 
manner,  with  lines  about  his  mouth  which,  to 
certain  men,  gave  his  face  a  hard  expression. 

"  First  let  me  ask  you,  Menard,  what  are 
your  plans  ? " 

"For  the  present?" 
.  "  Yes." 

"  I  have  none." 

"  Your  personal  affairs,  I  mean.  Have  you 
any  matters  to  hold  your  attention  here  for  the 
next  few  weeks  ?  " 

"  None." 

Major  Provost  fingered  his  quill. 

"  I  don't  know,  of  course,  how  your  own 
feelings  stand,  Menard.  You've  been  worked 
hard  for  three  years,  and  I  suppose  you  want 
rest.  But  somebody  must  go  to  Fort  Fronte- 
nac,  and  the  Governor  thinks  you  are  the 


man." 


22  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

Menard  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  There  are  a  dozen  men  here  with  little 
to  do." 

"  I  know  it.  But  this  matter  is  of  some 
importance,  and  it  may  call  for  delicate  work 
before  you  are  through  with  it.  It  isn't  much 
in  itself,  —  merely  to  bear  orders  to  d'Orvilliers, 
—  but  the  Governor  thinks  that  the  right  man 
may  be  able  to  do  strong  work  before  the 
campaign  opens.  You  probably  know  that  we 
are  to  move  against  the  Senecas  alone,  and 
that  we  must  treat  with  the  other  nations  to 
keep  them  from  aiding  the  Senecas.  No  one 
can  say  just  how  this  can  be  done.  Even 
Father  de  Lamberville  has  come  back,  you 
know,  from  the  Mohawks ;  but  the  Governor 
thinks  that  if  we  send  a  good  man,  he  may  be 
able  to  see  a  way,  once  he  gets  on  the  ground, 
and  can  advise  with  d'Orvilliers.  Now,  you 
are  a  good  man,  Menard ;  and  you  can  influ- 
ence the  Indians  if  anyone  can." 

"  You  are  a  little  vague,  Major." 

"  You  will  go  to  Frontenac  in  advance  of 
the  army  to  prepare  the  way.  La  Durantaye 
and  Du  Luth  are  already  at  Detroit,  awaiting 
orders,  with  close  to  two  hundred  Frenchmen 
and  four  hundred  Indians.  And  Tonty  should 


THE   MAID.  23 

have  joined  them  before  now  with  several 
hundred  Illinois." 

"  I  don't  believe  he'll  bring  many  Illinois. 
They  must  have  known  of  the  Iroquois  war 
party  that  started  toward  their  villages.  They 
will  stay  to  defend  their  own  country.  They 
may  not  know  that  the  Iroquois  party  was 
recalled." 

"  Recalled  ?  "  said  the  Major. 

"  Yes.  Father  de  Casson  has  the  news  from 
Father  de  Lamberville.  You  see  what  that 
means.  The  Iroquois  have  been  warned." 

"  I  was  afraid  of  it.  These  new  governors, 
Menard  —  each  has  to  learn  his  lesson  from 
the  beginning  of  the  book.  Why  will  they 
not  take  counsel  from  the  men  who  know  the 
Indians  ?  This  campaign  has  been  heralded  as 
broadly  as  a  trading  fair." 

"  When  should  I  start  ? "  asked  Menard,  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  At  once  —  within  a  few  days."  Major 
Provost  looked  at  the  other's  set  face.  "  I  am 
sorry  about  this,  Menard.  But  you  understand, 
I  arn  sure.  Perhaps  I  had  better  give  you  an 
idea  of  our  plans.  You  know,  of  course,  that 
we  have  three  ships  fitting  out  at  Frontenac. 
Already  our  force  is  being  got  together  at  St 


24  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

Helen's  Island,  by  Montreal.  Champigny  is 
engaging  canoemen  and  working  out  a  trans- 
port and  supply  system  between  Montreal  and 
Frontenac.  The  force  will  proceed  to  Fronte- 
nac,  and  embark  from  there  in  the  ships, 
bateaux,  and  canoes." 

"  Is  the  rendezvous  at  Niagara  ?  " 

"  No,  at  La  Famine,  on  the  southern  shore 
of  Lake  Ontario." 

Menard  nodded.  He  knew  the  place ;  for 
by  nearly  starving  there,  years  before,  with  the 
others  of  Governor  la  Barre's  ill-starred  expe- 
dition, he  had  contributed  to  giving  the  spot 
a  name. 

"  La  Durantaye  and  Du  Luth,  with  Tonty, 
are  to  meet  us  there.  You  will  instruct  them 
to  move  on  to  Niagara,  and  there  await  further 
orders.  We  shall  sail  around  the  east  end  of 
the  lake  and  along  the  south  shore." 

"  The  Iroquois  will  follow  your  movements." 

"  We  intend  that  they  shall.  They  will  not 
know  where  our  final  landing  place  will  be,  and 
will  have  to  keep  their  forces  well  in  hand. 
And  it  will  prevent  them  from  uniting  to  attack 
Niagara." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  We  will  leave  a  strong  guard  at  La  Famine 


THE   MAID.  25 

with  the  stores,  and  strike  inland  for  the  Seneca 
villages." 

"  And  now  what  part  am  I  to  play  in  this  ? " 

Major  Provost  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  You,  Menard,  are  to  represent  the  Gov- 
ernor. You  will  move  in  advance  of  the  troops. 
At  Frontenac  it  will  be  your  duty  to  see  first 
that  the  way  is  clear  to  getting  the  two  divi- 
sions to  the  meeting  place  at  La  Famine,  and  to 
see  that  d'Orvilliers  has  the  fort  ready  for  the 
troops,  with  extra  cabins  and  stockades.  Then 
the  Governor  wishes  you  and  d'Orvilliers  to  go 
over  all  the  information  the  scouts  bring  in.  If 
you  can  decide  upon  any  course  which  will  hold 
back  the  other  tribes  from  aiding  the  Senecas, 
act  upon  it  at  once,  without  orders.  In  other 
words,  you  have  full  liberty  to  follow  your  judg- 
ment. That  ought  to  be  responsibility  enough." 

Menard  stretched  his  arms.  "  All  right, 
Major.  But  when  my  day  comes  to  taste  the 
delights  of  Quebec,  I  hope  I  may  not  be  too 
old  to  enjoy  it." 

"  The  Governor  honours  you,  Menard,  with 
this  undertaking." 

"  He  honoured  De  Sevigne  with  a  majority 
and  turned  him  loose  in  Quebec." 

"Too   bad,    Menard,    too   bad,"   the    Major 


26  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

laughed.  "  Now  I,  who  ask  nothing  better  than 
a  brisk  campaign,  must  rot  here  in  Quebec  until 
I  die." 

"  Are  you  not  to  go  ?  " 

"No.  I  am  to  stay  behind  and  brighten  my 
lonely  moments  drilling  the  rabble  of  a  home 
guard.  Do  you  think  you  will  need  an  escort  ?  " 

"  No ;  the  river  from  here  to  Frontenac  is  in 
use  every  day.  I  shall  want  canoemen.  Two 
will  be  enough." 

"  Very  well.  Let  me  know  what  supplies  you 
need.  You  mistake,  man,  in  grumbling  at  the 
work.  You  are  building  up  a  reputation  that 
ne,ver  could  live  at  short  range.  Stay  away 
long  enough  and  you  will  be  a  more  popular 
man  than  the  Governor.  I  envy  you,  on  my 
honour,  I  do." 

"  One  thing  more,  Major.  This  galley  affair ; 
what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  You  mean  the  capture  at  Frontenac  ?  You 
should  know  better  than  I,  Menard.  You 
brought  the  prisoners  down." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind,  Major,  nor 
in  d'Orvilliers's !  We  obeyed  orders."  Menard 
looked  up  expressively.  "  You  know  the  Iro- 
quois.  You  know  how  they  will  take  it.  The 
worst  fault  was  La  Grange's,  He  capturecj  the 


THE   MAID.  27 

party  —  and  it  was  not  a  war  party  —  by  delib- 
erate treachery.  D'Orvilliers  had  intrusted  to 
him  the  Governor's  orders  that  Indians  must  be 
got  for  the  King's  galleys.  As  you  know,  d'Or- 
villiers  and  I  both  protested.  I  did  not  bring 
them  here  until  the  Governor  commanded  it." 

"  Well,  we  can't  help  that  now,  Menard." 

"  That  is  not  the  question.  You  ask  me  to 
keep  the  Onondagas  out  of  this  fight,  after  we 
have  taken  a  hundred  of  their  warriors  in  this 
way." 

"  I  know  it,  Menard  ;  I  know  it.  But  the 
Governor's  orders  —  Well,  I  have  nothing  to 
say.  You  can  only  do  your  best." 

They  went  to  the  reception  room,  where  Ma- 
dame de  Provost  awaited  them.  Menard  was 
made  to  stay  and  dine,  in  order  that  Madame 
could  draw  from  him  a  long  account  of  his 
latest  adventures  on  the  frontier.  Madame  de 
Provost,  though  she  had  lived  a  dozen  years  in 
the  province,  had  never  been  farther  from  Que- 
bec than  the  Seignory  of  the  Marquis  de  St. 
Denis,  half  a  dozen  leagues  below  the  city. 
The  stories  that  came  to  her  ears  of  massacres 
and  battles,  of  settlers  butchered  in  the  fields, 
and  of  the  dashing  adventures  of  La  Salle  and 
Du  Luth,  were  to  her  no  more  than  wild  tales 


28  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

from  a  far-away  land.  So  she  chattered  through 
the  long  dinner ;  and  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  reached  the  city,  Menard  wished  himself 
back  on  Lake  Ontario,  where  there  were  no 
women. 

Menard  returned  to  the  citadel  early  in  the 
evening.  Lieutenant  Danton  was  drawing 
plans  for  a  redoubt,  but  he  leaned  back  as 
Menard  entered. 

"  I  began  to  think  you  were  not  coming  back, 
Captain,"  he  said.  "I'm  told  the  Major  says 
that  you  are  the  only  'man  in  New  France  who 
could  have  got  that  trading  agreement  from  the 
Onondagas  last  year.  How  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  How  does  a  man  usually  do  what  he  is  told 
to  do  ?  "  Menard  sat  on  a  corner  of  the  long 
table  and  looked  lazily  at  the  boy. 

"  That  wasn't  the  kind  of  treaty  our  Govern- 
ors make ;  you  know  it  wasn't." 

"  You  were  not  here  under  Frontenac." 

"  No.  I  wish  I  had  been.  He  must  have 
been  a  great  orator.  My  father  has  told  me 
about  the  long  council  at  Montreal.  He  said 
that  Frontenac  out-talked  the  greatest  of  the 
Mohawk  orators.  Did  you  learn  it  from  him  ?  " 

"My  boy,  when  you  are  through  with  your 
pretty  pictures,"  Menard  motioned  toward  the 


THE   MAID.  29 

plans,  "and  have  got  out  into  the  real  work; 
when  you've  spent  months  in  Iroquois  lodges ; 
when  you've  been  burned  and  shot  and  starved, 
—  then  it  will  be  a  pity  if  you  haven't  learned 
to  be  a  soldier.  What  is  this  little  thing  you 
are  drawing  ? " 

Danton  flushed.  "  You  may  laugh  at  the 
engineers,"  he  said,  "  but  where  would  King 
Louis  be  now  if  —  " 

"  Tut,  my  boy,  tut !  " 

"  That  is  very  well  —  " 

Menard  laughed.  "  How  old  are  you,  Dan- 
ton  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Twenty-two." 

"  Very  good.  You  have  got  on  well.  I  dare 
say  you've  learned  a  deal  out  of  your  books. 
Now  we  have  you  out  here  in  the  provinces, 
where  the  hard  work  is  done.  We'll  send  you 
back  in  a  few  years  a  real  man.  And  then 
you'll  step  smartly  among  the  pretty  officers  of 
the  King,  and  when  one  speaks  of  New  France 
you'll  lift  your  brows  and  say :  '  New  France  ? 
Ah,  yes.  That  -is  in  America.  I  was  there 
once.  Rather  a  primitive  life  —  no  court,  no 
army.'  Ah,  ha,  my  boy  —  no,  never  mind. 
Come  up  to  my  quarters  and  have  a  sip  of  real 
old  Burgundy." 


30  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Are  you  ever  serious,  Menard  ? "  asked 
Danton,  sitting  on  the  Captain's  cot  and  smack- 
ing his  lips  over  the  liquor. 

Menard  smiled.  "  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to 
play  at  composure  for  an  hour,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  see  Father  Claude.  Settle  yourself  here, 
if  you  like." 

Menard  hurried  away,  for  it  was  growing  late. 
He  found  the  Jesuit  meditating  in  his  cell. 

"  Ah,  Captain  Menard,  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
so  soon  again." 

Menard  sat  on  the  narrow  bed  and  stretched 
out  his  legs  as  far  as  he  could  in  the  cramped 
space. 

"  How  soon  will  your  duties  be  over  here, 
Father?" 

"  There  seems  to  be  no  reason  for  me  to  stay. 
I  have  delivered  the  relations,  and  no  further 
work  has  come  to  hand." 

"  Then  it  may  be  that  you  can  help  me, 
Father." 

"  You  know,  my  son,  that  I  will." 

"  Very  well.  I  have  been  ordered  to  Fort 
Frontenac  in  advance  of  the  troops.  I  am  to 
bear  orders  to  d'Orvilliers  and  to  Du  Luth  and 
La  Durantaye.  It  is  possible  that  there  may 
be  some  delicate  work  to  be  done  among  the 


THE   MAID.  31 

Indians.  You  know  the  Iroquois,  Father,  and 
our  two  heads  together  should  be  stronger  than 
mine  alone.  I  want  you  to  go  with  me." 

'  The  priest's  eyes  lighted. 

"  It  may  be  that  I  can  get  permission  at 
Montreal." 

"  You  will  go,  then  ?  " 

"  Gladly.  It  is  to  be  no  one  else  —  we 
two  —  " 

"  We  shall  have  canoemen.  To  my  mind, 
the  fewer  the  better." 

"  Still,  Captain,  you  cannot  depend  on  the 
canoemen.  Would  it  not  he  well  to  have  one 
other  man  ?  You  might  need  a  messenger." 

Menard  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  True,  Father.  And  if  I  am  to  have  a  man, 
he  had  best  be  an  officer;  yes,  a  man  who 
could  execute  orders.  I'll  take  Danton.  You 
will  be  ready  for  a  start,  Father,  probably 
to-morrow  ? " 

"  At  any  time,  my  son." 

"  Good  night." 

There  was  little  work  to  be  done  in  preparing 
for  the  journey  (Major  Provost  would  attend  to 
the  supplies  and  to  engaging  the  canoemen), 
and  Menard  still  was  in  the  lazy  mood.  He 
stood  for  a  while  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and 


32  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

looked  down  at  the  wharf.  It  was  dark,  and  he 
could  not  see  whether  the  body  of  the  Indian 
had  been  removed.  The  incident  of  the  after- 
noon had  been  gathering  importance  to  his  mind 
the  longer  he  thought  of  it.  Five  years  earlier 
Menard  had  been  captured  by  the  Onondagas 
during  a  fight  near  Fort  Frontenac.  They 
had  taken  him  to  one  of  their  villages,  south 
of  Lake  Ontario,  and  for  days  had  tortured 
him  and  starved  him.  They  had  drawn  out 
cords  from  his  arms  and  legs  and  .thrust  sticks 
between  them  and  the  flesh.  ,His  back  was 
still  covered  with  scars  from  the  burning  slivers 
which  they  had  stuck  through  the  skin.  They 
had  torn  the  nails  from  his  left  hand  with  their 
teeth.  Then  Otreouati,  the  Big  Throat,  the 
chief  who  had  led  his  followers  to  believe  in 
Frontenac,  came  back  from  a  parley  with 
another  tribe,  and  taking  a  liking  to  the  tall 
young  soldier  who  bore  the  torture  without 
flinching,  he  adopted  him  into  his  own  family. 
Menard  had  lived  with  the  Indians,  a  captive 
only  in  name,  and  had  earned  the  name  of  the 
Big  Buffalo  by  his  skill  in  the  hunt.  At  last, 
when  they  had  released  him,  it  was  under  a 
compact  of  friendship,  that  had  never  since  been 
broken.  It  had  stood  many  tests.  Even  dur- 


THE   MAID.  33 

ing  open  campaigns  they  had  singled  him  out 
from  the  other  Frenchmen  as  their  brother. 
He  wondered  whether  they  knew  of  his  part  in 
stocking  the  King's  galleys.  Probably  they  did. 

It  was  late  when  Menard  took  a  last  sweeping 
look  at  the  river  and  walked  up  to  the  citadel. 
His  day  of  idleness  was  over.  After  all,  it  had 
not  been  altogether  a  wasted  day.  But  it  was 
the  longest  holiday  he  was  likely  to  have  for 
months  to  come.  Having  made  up  his  mind  to 
accept  the  facts,  he  stretched  out  on  his  bed  and 
went  to  sleep. 

Danton  took  the  news  that  he  was  to  be  a 
member  of  the  party  with  enthusiasm.  Menard 
had  hardly  finished  telling  him  when  he  swept 
the  tiresome  plans  and  specifications  into  a 
heap  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and  rushed  out 
to  get  a  musket  (for  a  sword  would  have  no 
place  in  the  work  before  them).  The  start  was 
to  be  made  at  noon,  but  Danton  was  on  the 
ground  so  early  as  almost  to  lower  his  dignity 
in  the  eyes  of  the  bronzed  canoemen.  He 
wore  his  bravest  uniform,  with  polished  belt 
and  buttons  and  new  lace  at  the  neck.  His 
broad  hat  had  a  long  curling  feather.  He 
wore  the  new  musket  slung  rakishly  over  his 
shoulder. 


34  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

About  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  as  Me- 
nard  was  looking  over  his  orders,  memorizing 
them  in  case  of  accident  to  the  papers,  he 
was  found  by  Major  Provost's  orderly,  who 
said  that  the  Commandant  wished  to  see  him 
at  once. 

The  Major  was  busy  with  the  engineers  in 
another  room,  but  he  left  them. 

"  Menard,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  I've  got  to  ask 
you  to  do  me  a  favour.  If  I  could  see  any  way 
out  of  it  —  " 

"  I  will  do  anything  I  can." 

"  Thank  you.  I  suppose  you  know  the 
Marquis  de  St.  Denis  ? " 

"  Slightly." 

"  Well,  I  shan't  take  time  to  give  you  the  whole 
story.  St.  Denis  has  the  seignory  six  leagues 
to  the  east.  You  may  know  that  he  went 
into  debt  to  invest  in  La  Salle's  colonizing 
scheme  in  Louisiana.  St.  Denis  was  in  France 
at  the  time,  and  had  great  faith  in  La  Salle. 
Of  course,  now  that  La  Salle  has  not  been 
heard  from,  and  the  debts  are  all  past  due 
without  even  a  rumour  of  success  to  make 
them  good  —  you  can  imagine  the  rest.  The 
seignory  has  been  seized.  St.  Denis  has 
nothing." 


THE  MAID.  35 

"  Has  he  a  family  ?  "  asked  Menard. 

"  A  daughter.  His  wife  is  dead.  He  came 
here  after  you  left  last  night,  and  again  this 
morning.  We  are  old  friends,  and  I  have  been 
trying  to  help  him.  He  is  going  to  sail  to-day 
on  Le  Fourgon  for  Paris  to  see  what  he  can 
save  from  the  wreck.  My  house  is  crowded 
with  the  officers  who  are  here  planning  the 
campaign ;  but  St.  Denis  has  a  cousin  living  at 
Frontenac,  Captain  la  Grange,  and  we've  got 
to  get  Valerie  there  somehow.  Do  you  think 
it  will  be  safe  ?  " 

"  It's  a  hard  trip,  you  know ;  but  it's  safe 
enough." 

"  I  shan't  forget  your  kindness,  Menard. 
The  girl  is  a  spirited  little  thing,  and  she 
takes  it  hard.  Madame  has  set  her  heart  on 
getting  her  to  La  Grange.  I  don't  know  all 
the  details  myself." 

"  I  think  we  can  arrange  it,  Major.  We 
start  in  an  hour." 

"  She  will  be  there.  You  are  a  splendid 
fellow,  Menard.  Good-bye." 

Menard's  face  was  less  amiable  once  he  was 
away  from  the  house.  He  knew  from  experi- 
ence the  disagreeable  task  that  lay  before  him. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  be  said,  so  he  went 


36  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

to  his  quarters  and  took  a  last  look  at  the 
orders.  Then  taking  off  his  coat  and  his  rough 
shirt,  he  placed  the  papers  carefully  in  a  buck- 
skin bag,  which  he  hung  about  his  neck. 

Everything  was  ready  at  the  wharf.  The 
long  canoe  lay  waiting,  a  voyageur  at  each 
end.  The  bales  were  stowed  carefully  in  the 
centre.  Father  de  Casson  met  Menard  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  dock.  He  had  come  down 
by  way  of  the  winding  road,  for  his  bundle  was 
heavy,  and  he  knew  no  way  but  to  carry  it  him- 
self. Menard  good-naturedly  gave  him  a  hand 
as  they  crossed  the  dock.  When  they  had  set 
it  down,  and  Menard  straightened  up,  his  eyes 
twinkled,  for  young  Danton,  in  his  finery,  was 
nervously  walking  back  and  forth  at  the  edge 
of  the  dock,  looking  fixedly  into  the  canoe, 
apparently  inspecting  the  bales.  His  shoulders 
were  unused  to  the  musket,  and  by  a  quick 
turn  he  had  brought  the  muzzle  under  the  rim 
of  his  hat,  setting  it  on  the  side  of  his  head. 
His  face  was  red. 

Sitting  on  a  bundle,  a  rod  away,  was  a  girl, 
perhaps  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  old,  wear- 
ing a  simple  travelling  dress.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  tightly  in  her  lap,  and  she  gazed  stead- 
ily out  over  the  water  with  an  air  that  would 


Sitting  on  a  bundle  was  a  girl  .  .  .  perhaps  eighteen  or  nineteen 
years  old." 


.      THE   MAID.  37 

have  been  haughty  save  for  the  slight  upward 
tip  of  her  nose. 

Menard's  eyes  sobered,  and  he  handed  his 
musket  to  one  of  the  canoemen.  Then  he 
crossed  over  to  where  the  maiden  was  sitting. 

"  Mademoiselle  St.  Denis  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  seemed 
to  take  in  the  dinginess  of  his  uniform.  She 
inclined  her  head. 

"  I  am  Captain  Menard.  Major  Provost  tells 
me  that  I  am  to  have  the  honour  of  escorting 
you  to  Fort  Frontenac.  With  your  permission 
we  will  start.  Father  Claude  de  Casson  is  to 
go  with  us,  and  Lieutenant  Danton." 

The  bundle  was  placed  in  the  canoe.  Men- 
ard helped  the  girl  to  a  seat  near  the  middle : 
from  the  way  she  stepped  in  and  took  her  seat 
he  saw  that  she  had  been  on  the  river  before. 
Danton,  with  his  Parisian  airs,  had  to  be  helped 
in  carefully.  Then  they  were  off,  each  of  the 
four  men  swinging  a  paddle,  though  Danton 
managed  his  awkwardly  at  first. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MADEMOISELLE    EATS    HER    BREAKFAST. 

'""THE  sun  hung  low  over  the  western  woods 
*  when  Menard,  at  the  close  of  the  second 
day,  headed  the  canoe  shoreward.  The  great 
river  swept  by  with  hardly  a  surface  motion, 
dimpling  and  rippling  under  the  last  touch  of 
the  day  breeze.  Menard's  eyes  rested  on 
Father  Claude,  as  the  canoe  drew  into  the 
shadow  of  the  trees.  The  priest,  stiff  from  the 
hours  of  sitting  and  kneeling,  had  taken  up  a 
paddle  and  was  handling  it  deftly.  He  had 
rolled  his  sleeves  up  to  the  elbow,  showing  a 
thin  forearm  with  wire-like  muscles.  The  two 
voyageurs,  at  bow  and  stern,  were  proving  to 
be  quiet  enough  fellows.  Guerin,  the  younger, 
wore  a  boyish,  half-confiding  look.  His  fellow, 
Perrot,  was  an  older  man. 

Menard  felt,  when  he  thought  of  Danton,  a 
sense  of  pride  in  his  own  right  judgment. 
The  boy  was  taking  hold  with  a  strong,  if  un« 

38 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS  HER  BREAKFAST.    39 

guided,  hand.  Already  the  feather  was  gone 
from  his  hat,  the  lace  from  his  throat.  Two 
days  in  the  canoe  and  a  night  on  the  ground 
had  stained  and  wrinkled  his  uniform,  —  a  con- 
dition of  which,  with  his  quick  adaptability,  he 
was  already  beginning  to  feel  proud.  He  had 
flushed  often,  during  the  first  day,  under  the 
shrewd  glances  of  the  voyageurs,  who  read  the 
inexperience  in  his  bright  clothes  and  white 
hands.  Menard  knew,  from  the  way  his  shoul- 
ders followed  the  swing  of  his  arms,  that  the 
steady  paddling  was  laming  him  sadly.  He 
would  allow  Danton  five  days  more ;  at  the 
week's  end  he  must  be  a  man,  else  the  experi- 
ment had  failed. 

The  canoe  scraped  bottom  under  a  wild 
growth  of  brush  and  outreaching  trees.  The 
forest  was  stirring  with  the  rustle  and  call  of 
birds,  with  the  breath  of  the  leaves  and  the 
far-away  crackle  and  plunge  of  larger  animals 
through  the  undergrowth.  A  chipmunk,  with 
inquisitive  eyes,  sat  on  the  root  of  a  knotted 
oak,  but  he  whisked  away  when  Menard  and 
the  canoemen  stepped  into  the  shallow  water. 
Overhead,  showing  little  fear  of  the  canoe 
and  of  the  strangely  clad  animals  within  it, 
scampered  a  family  of  red  squirrels,  now  nib- 


40  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

bling  a  nut  from  the  winter's  store,  now  run- 
ning and  jumping  from  tree  to  tree,  until  only 
by  the  shaking  of  the  twigs  and  the  leaf-clusters 
could  one  follow  their  movements. 

The  maid  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  bale  which 
Danton  had  placed  at  her  back,  and  rested  her 
cheek  on  her  hand.  They  were  under  the 
drooping  branches  of  an  elm  that  stood  hold- 
ing to  the  edge  of  the  bank.  Well  out  over 
the  water  sat  one  of  the  squirrels,  his  tail 
sweeping  above  his  head,  nibbling  an  acorn, 
and  looking  with  hasty  little  glances  at  the 
canoe.  She  watched  him,  and  memories  came 
into  her  eyes.  There  had  been  squirrels  on 
her  father's  seignory  who  would  take  nuts 
from  her  hand,  burying  them  slyly  under  the 
bushes,  and  hurrying  back  for  more. 

Danton  came  wading  to  the  side  of  the 
canoe  to  help  her  to  the  bank,  but  she  took  his 
hand  only  to  steady  herself  while  rising.  Step- 
ping over  the  bracing-strips  between  the  gun- 
wales, she  caught  a  swaying  branch,  and  swung 
herself  lightly  ashore.  Back  from  the  water 
the  ground  rose  into  a  low  hill,  covered  with 
oak  and  elm  and  ragged  hickory  trees.  Here, 
for  a  space,  there  was  little  undergrowth,  and 
save  under  the  heaviest  of  the  trees  the  ground 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS   HER   BREAKFAST.    41 

was  green  with  short,  coarse  grass.  Danton 
took  a  hatchet  from  the  canoe,  and  trimmed  a 
fir  tree,'  heaping  armfuls  of  green  boughs  at  the 
foot  of  an  oak  near  the  top  of  the  slope.  Over 
these  he  threw  a  blanket.  The  maid  came 
slowly  up  the  hill,  in  response  to  his  call,  and 
with  a  weary  little  smile  of  thanks  she  sank 
upon  the  fragrant  couch.  She  rested  against 
the  tree  trunk,  gazing  through  the  nearer  foli- 
age at  the  rushing  river. 

For  the  two  days  she  had  been  like  this,  — 
silent,  shy,  with  sad  eyes.  And  Danton,  —  who 
could  no  more  have  avoided  the  company  of 
such  a  maid  than  he  could  have  left  off  eating 
or  breathing  or  laughing,  —  Danton,  for  all  his 
short  Paris  life  (which  should,  Heaven  knows, 
have  given  him  a  front  with  the  maids),  could 
do  nothing  but  hang  about,  eager  for  a  smile 
or  a  word,  yet  too  young  to  know  that  he  could 
better  serve  his  case  by  leaving  her  with  her 
thoughts,  and  with  the  boundless  woods  and 
the  great  lonely  spaces  of  the  river.  Menard 
saw  the  comedy  —  as  indeed,  who  of  the 
party  did  not  —  and  was  amused.  A  few 
moments  later  he  glanced  again  toward  the 
oak.  He  was  sharpening  a  knife,  and  could 
seem  not  to  be  observing.  Danton  was 


42  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

sitting  a  few  yards  from  the  maid,  with  the 
awkward  air  of  a  youth  who  doubts  his  wel- 
come. She  still  looked  out  over  the  water. 
Menard  saw  that  her  face  was  white  and  droop- 
ing. He  knew  that  she  had  not  slept;  for 
twice  during  the  preceding  night,  as  he  lay  in 
his  blanket,  he  had  heard  from  under  the  over- 
turned canoe,  where  she  lay,  the  low  sound  of 
her  sobbing. 

Menard  walked  slowly  down  the  slope,  test- 
ing the  knife-edge  with  his  thumb,  his  short 
pipe  between  his  teeth.  He  sheathed  his  knife, 
lowered  his  pipe,  and  called :  — 

"  Guerin."  The  two  men,  who  were  bringing 
wood  to  the  fire,  looked  up.  "  Where  has  the 
Father  gone  ? " 

Guerin  pointed  around  the  base  of  the  hill. 
"  He  went  to  the  woods,  M'sieu." 

"  With  a  bundle,"  added  Perrot. 

Menard  walked  around  the  hill,  and  after  a 
little  searching  found  the  priest,  kneeling,  in  a 
clearing,  before  the  portrait  of  Catharine  Outa- 
soren,  which  he  had  set  against  a  tree.  His 
brushes  and  paints  were  spread  on  the  ground 
before  him.  He  did  not  hear  Menard  approach. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  captain,  "  you  brought  the 
picture!" 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS   HER   BREAKFAST.     43 

The  priest  looked  up  over  his  shoulder,  with 
a  startled  manner. 

"  I  myself  have  stripped  down  to  the  lightest 
necessaries,"  said  Menard,  with  a  significant 
glance  at  the  portrait. 

The  priest  lowered  his  brush,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  picture  with  troubled  eyes.  "  I  had  no 
place  for  it,"  he  said  ,at  last,  hesitatingly. 

"  They  didn't  take  it  at  the  College,  eh  ?  " 

Father  Claude  flushed. 

"  They  were  very  kind.  They  felt  that 
perhaps  it  was  not  entirely  completed,  and 
that—" 

"  You  will  leave  it  at  Montreal,  then,  at  the 
Mission  ? " 

"  Yes,  —  I  suppose  so.  Yes,  I  shall  plan  to 
leave  it  there." 

Menard  leaned  against  a  tree,  and  pressed 
the  tobacco  down  in  his  pipe. 

"  I  have  been  doing  some  thinking  in  the 
last  few  minutes,  Father.  I've  decided  to  make 
my  first  call  on  you  for  assistance." 

"  Very  well,  Captain." 

"It  is  about  the  maid.     Have  you  noticed?" 

"  She  seems  of  a  sober  mind." 

"  Don't  you  see  why  ?  It  is  her  father's 
losses,  and  this  journey.  She  is  taking  it  very 


44  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

hard.  She  is  afraid,  Father,  all  the  time  ;  and 
she  neither  sleeps  nor  eats." 

"  It  is  naturally  hard  for  such  a  child  as  she 
is  to  take  this  journey.  She  has  had  no  experi- 
ence,—  she  does  not  comprehend  the  easy  cus- 
toms and  the  hard  travelling  of  the  frontier.  I 
think  that  in  time  —  " 

Menard  was  puffing  impatiently. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  do  you  remember  when 
Major  Gordeau  was  killed,  and  I  was  detailed 
to  bring  his  wife  and  daughter  down  to  Three 
Rivers  ?  It  was  much  like  this.  They  fretted 
and  could  not  sleep,  and  thfe  coarse  fare  of  the 
road  was  beneath  their  appetites.  Do  you 
remember?  And  when  it  came  to  taking  the 
rapids,  with  the  same  days  of  hard  work  that 
lie  before  us  now,  they  were  too  weak,  and 
they  sickened,  the  mother  first,  then  the  daugh- 
ter. When  I  think  of  that,  Father,  of  the  last 
week  of  that  journey,  and  of  how  I  swore 
never  again  to  take  a  woman  in  my  care  on  the 
river,  I  —  well,  there  is  no  use  in  going  over 
it.  If  this  goes  on,  we  shall  not  get  to  Fronte- 
nac  in  time,  that  is  all.  And  I  cannot  afford 
to  take  such  a  chance." 

The  priest  looked  grave.  The  long  struggle 
against  the  rapids  from  Montreal  to  La  Gallette 


MADEMOISELLE    EATS   HER    BREAKFAST.    45 

had  tried  the  hardihood  of  more  than  one  strong 
man. 

"  It  is  probable,  my  son,  that  the  sense  of 
your  responsibility  makes  you  a  little  over- 
cautious. She  is  a  strong  enough  child,  I 
should  say.  Still,  perhaps  the  food  is  not  what 
she  has  been  accustomed  to.  I  have  noticed 
that  she  eats  little." 

"  Perrot  is  too  fond  of  grease,"  Menard  said. 
"  I  must  tell  him  to  use  less  grease." 

"  If  she  should  be  taken  sick,  we  could  leave 
her  with  someone  at  Montreal." 

"  Leave  her  at  Montreal !  "  exclaimed  Menard. 
"  When  she  breaks  down,  it  will  be  in  the 
rapids.  And  then  I  must  either  go  on  alone, 
or  wait  with  you  until  she  is  strong  enough  to 
be  carried.  In  any  case  it  means  confusion 
and  delay.  And  I  must  not  be  delayed." 

"  What  have  you  in  mind  to  do  ?  " 

"  We  must  find  a  way  to  brighten  her  spirits. 
It  is  homesickness  that  worries  her,  and  sorrow 
for  her  father,  and  dread  of  what  is  before  and 
around  her.  I'll  warrant  she  has  never  been 
away  from  her  home  before.  We  must  get 
her  confidence, — devise  ways  to  cheer  her, 
brighten  her." 

"  I  can  reason  with  her,  and  —  " 


46  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  This  is  not  the  time  for  reasoning,  Father. 
What  we  must  do  is  to  make  her  stop  thinking, 
stop  looking  backward  and  forward.  And  there 
is  Danton ;  he  can  help.  He  is  of  an  age  with 
her,  and  should  succeed  where  you  and  I  might 
fail." 

"  He  has  not  awaited  the  suggestion,  Captain." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  he  must,  —  well,  Father, 
it  has  all  been  said.  The  maid  is  on  our  hands, 
and  must  be  got  to  Frontenac.  That  is  all. 
And  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  rely  on 
Danton  to  help." 

The  priest  looked  at  his  brushes,  and  hesi- 
tated. "  I  am  not  certain,"  he  said,  "  she  is 
very  young.  And  Lieutenant  Danton,  —  I 
have  heard,  while  at  Quebec,  —  " 

Menard  laughed. 

"  He  is  a  boy,  Father.  These  tales  may 
be  true  enough.  Why  not  ?  They  would  fit 
as  well  any  idle  lieutenant  in  Quebec,  who  is 
lucky  enough  to  have  an  eye,  and  a  pair  of 
shoulders,  and  a  bit  of  the  King's  gold  in  his 
purse.  This  maid  is  the  daughter  of  a  gentle- 
man, Father;  she  is  none  of  your  Lower  Town 
jades.  And  Danton  may  be  young  and  foolish, 
—  as  may  we  all  have  been,  —  but  he  is  a 
gentleman  born." 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS   HER   BREAKFAST.    45 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  priest,  looking  with 
regret  at  the  failing  light,  and  beginning  to 
gather  his  brushes.  "  I  will  counsel  her,  but  I 
fear  it  will  do  little  good.  If  the  maid  is  sick 
at  heart,  and  we  attempt  to  guide  her  thoughts, 
we  may  but  drive  the  trouble  deeper  in.  It  is 
the  same  with  some  of  the  Indian  maidens, 
when  they  have  left  the  tribe  for  the  Mission. 
Now  and  again  there  comes  a  time,  even  with 
piety  to  strengthen  them,  —  and  this  maid  has' 
little,  —  when  the  yearning  seems  to  grow  too 
strong  to  be  cured.  Sometimes  they  go  back. 
One  died.  It  was  at  Sault  St.  Francis  in  the 
year  of  the  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Menard  broke  in.  "  We  have 
only  one  fact  to  remember;  there  must  be  no 
delay  in  carrying  out  the  Governor's  orders. 
We  cannot  change  our  plans  because  of  this 
maid." 

"  We  must  not  let  her  understand,  M'sieu." 

Menard  had  been  standing,  with  a  shoulder 
against  the  tree,  alternately  puffing  at  his  pipe 
and  lowering  it,  scowling  meanwhile  at  the 
ground.  Now  he  suddenly  raised  his  head 
and  chuckled. 

"  It  will  be  many  a  year  since  I  have  played 
the  beau,  Father.  It  may  be  that  I  have  for- 


48  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

gotten  the  role."  He  spread  out  his  hands 
and  looked  at  the  twisted  fingers.  "  But  I  can 
try,  like  a  soldier.  And  there  are  three  of  us, 
Father  Claude,  there  are  three  of  us." 

He  turned  to  go  back  to  the  camp,  but  the 
priest  touched  him. 

"  My  son,  —  perhaps,  before  you  return,  you 
would  look  again  at  my  unworthy  portrait. 
I — about  the  matter  of  the  canoe  —  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Menard,  "  you've  taken  it  out." 

"  Yes ;  it  seemed  best,  considering  the  danger 
that  others  might  feel  the  same  doubts  which 
troubled  you." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  that.  The  canoe  was  all 
right,  once  the  direction  were  decided  on." 

"  Above  all  else,  the  true  portrait  should 
convey  to  the  mind  of  the  observer  the  im- 
pression that  a  single,  an  unmistakable  purpose 
underlies  the  work.  When  one  considers  —  " 

"  Very  true,  Father,  very  true,"  said  Menard 
abruptly,  looking  about  at  the  beginning  of  the 
twilight.  "  And  now  we  had  better  get  back. 
The  supper  will  be  ready." 

Menard  strode  away  toward  the  camp.  Father 
Claude  watched  him  for  a  time  through  the  trees, 
then  turned  again  to  the  picture.  Finally  he  got 
together  his  materials,  and  carrying  them  in  a 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS   HER   BREAKFAST.    49 

fold  of  his  gown,  with  the  picture  in  his  left 
hand,  he  followed  Menard. 

The  maid  was  leaning  back  against  the  tree, 
looking  up  at  the  sky,  where  the  first  red  of  the 
afterglow  was  spreading.  She  did  not  hear 
Menard ;  and  he  paused,  a  few  yards  away,  to 
look  at  the  clear  whiteness  of  her  skin  and  the 
full  curve  of  her  throat.  Her  figure  and  air, 
her  habits  of  gesture  and  step,  and  carriage  of 
the  head,  were  those  of  the  free-hearted  maid 
of  the  seignory.  They  told  of  an  outdoor  life, 
of  a  good  horse,  and  a  light  canoe,  and  the 
inbred  love  of  trees  and  sky  and  running  water. 
Here  was  none  of  the  stiffness,  the  more  than 
Parisian  manner,  of  the  maidens  of  Quebec. 
To  stand  there  and  look  at  her,  unconscious  as 
she  was,  pleased  Menard. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  coming  nearer,  "  will 
you  join  us  at  supper  ?  " 

The  maid  looked  at  him  with  a  slow  blush 
(she  was  not  yet  accustomed  to  the  right  of 
these  men  to  enter  into  the  routine  of  her  life). 
Menard  reached  to  help  her,  but  she  rose 
easily. 

"  Lieutenant  Danton  is  not  here  ?  " 

"  No,  M'sieu,  he  walked  away." 

They  sat   about    a   log.      Danton    had    n '•* 


5<>  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

strayed  far,  for  he  joined  them  shortly,  wearing 
a  sulky  expression.  Menard  looked  about  the 
group.  The  maid  was  silent.  Father  Claude 
was  beginning  at  once  on  the  food  before  him. 
The  twilight  was  growing  deeper,  and  Guerin 
dragged  a  log  to  the  fire,  throwing  it  on  the 
pile  with  a  shower  of  sparks,  and  half  a  hundred 
shooting  tongues  of  flame.  The  Captain  looked 
again  at  Danton,  and  saw  that  the  boy's  glance 
shifted  uneasily  about  the  group.  Altogether 
it  was  an  unfortunate  start  for  his  plan.  But  it 
was  clear  that  no  other  would  break  the  ice, 
so  he  drew  a  long  breath,  and  plunged  dog- 
gedly into  the  story  of  his  first  fight  on  the  St. 
Lawrence. 

It  was  a  brave  story  of  ambuscade  and  battle ; 
and  it  was  full  of  the  dark  of  night  and  the  red 
flash  of  muskets  and  the  stealth  and  treachery 
of  the  Iroquois  soul.  When  he  reached  the 
tale  of  the  captured  Mohawk,  who  sat  against  a 
tree  with  a  ball  in  his  lungs,  to  the  last  refusing 
the  sacrament,  and  dying  like  a  chief  with  the 
death  song  on  his  lips,  Danton  was  leaning 
forward,  breathless  and  eager,  hanging  on  his 
words.  The  maid's  eyes,  too,  were  moist. 
Then  they  talked  on,  Danton  asking  boyish 
questions,  and  Father  Claude  starting  over  and 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS  HER   BREAKFAST.    51 

again  on  a  narrative  of  the  wonderful  conver- 
sion of  the  Huron  drunkard,  Heroukiki,  who, 
in  his  zeal,  —  and  here  Menard  always  swept  in 
with  a  new  story,  which  left  the  priest  adrift  in 
the  eddies  of  the  conversation.  At  last,  when 
they  rose,  and  the  dusk  was  settling  over  the 
trees,  the  maid  was  laughing  with  gentle  good 
fellowship. 

While  they  were  eating,  the  voyageurs  had 
brought  the  canoe  a  short  way  up  the  bank, 
resting  it,  bottom  up,  on  large  stones  brought 
from  the  shore.  Underneath  was  a  soft  cot  of 
balsam ;  over  the  canoe  were  blankets,  hanging 
on  both  sides  to  the  ground.  Then  Mademoi- 
selle said  good-night,  with  a  moment's  linger- 
ing on  the  word,  and  a  wistful  note  in  her  voice 
that  brought  perhaps  more  sympathy  than  had 
the  sad  eyes  of  the  morning.  For  after  all  she 
was  only  a  girl,  and  hers  was  a  brave  little 
heart. 

The  three  men  lay  on  the  slope  with  hardly 
a  word,  looking  at  the  river,  now  shining  like 
silver  through  the  trees.  This  new  turn  in 
the  life  of  the  party  was  not  as  yet  to  be  taken 
familiarly.  Father  Claude  withdrew  early  to 
his  meditations.  Menard  stretched  out  on  his 
back,  his  hands  behind  his  head,  gazing  lazily 


52  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

at  the  leaves  overhead,  now  hanging  motionless 
from  the  twigs. 

Danton  was  sitting  up,  looking  about,  and 
running  the  young  reeds  through  his  fingers. 

"  Danton,"  Menard  said,  after  a  long  silence, 
"  I  suppose  you  know  that  we  have  something 
of  a  problem  on  our  hands." 

Danton  looked  over  the  river. 

"  What  have  you  thought  about  Mademoi- 
selle ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Father  Claude  and  I  have  been  talking  this 
evening  about  her.  I  have  thought  that  she 
does  not  look  any  too  strong  for  a  hard  journey 
of  a  hundred  and  more  leagues." 

"  She  has  little  colour,"  said  Danton,  cau- 
tiously. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Danton,  that  you  can  help 
us." 

"How?" 

"  What  seems  to  you  the  cause  of  the 
trouble?" 

"  With  Mademoiselle  ?  She  takes  little  im- 
pression from  the  kindness  of  those  about  her." 

"  Oh,  come,  Danton.  You  know  better. 
Even  a  boy  of  your  age  should  see  deeper  than 
that.  You  think  she  slights  you ;  very  likely 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS   HER    BREAKFAST.     53 

she  does.  What  of  that  ?  You  are  not  here 
to  be  drawn  into  a  boy-and-girl  quarrel  with  a 
maid  who  chances  to  share  our  canoe.  You 
are  here  as  my  aid,  to  make  the  shortest  time 
possible  between  Quebec  and  Frontenac.  If 
she  were  to  fall  sick,  we  should  be  delayed. 
Therefore  she  must  not  fall  sick." . 

Danton  had  plucked  a  weed,  and  now  was 
pulling  it  to  pieces,  bit  by  bit. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Stop  this  moping,  this  hanging  about. 
Take  hold  of  the  matter.  Devise  talks,  diver- 
sions; fill  her  idle  moments;  I  care  not  what 
you  do, — within  limits,  my  boy,  within  limits." 

"  Oh,"  said  Danton,  "  then  you  really  want 
me  to  ? " 

"  Certainly.     I  am  too  old  myself." 

Danton  rose,  and  walked  a  few  steps  away 
and  back. 

"  But  she  will  have  none,  of  me,  Menard.  It 
is,  '  No,  with  thanks,'  or,  worse,  a  shake  of  the 
head.  If  I  offer  to  help,  if  I  try  to  talk,  if  I  — 
oh,  it  is  always  the  same.  I  am  tired  of  it." 

Menard  smiled  in  the  dark. 

"  Is  that  your  reply  to  an  order  from  your 
superior  officer,  Danton  ?  " 

The  boy  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he 


54  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Captain."  And  with 
a  curious  effort  at  stiffness  he  wandered  off 
among  the  trees,  and  was  soon  out  of  Menard's 
sight. 

Menard  walked  slowly  down  to  the  fire, 
opened  his  pack,  and  spreading  out  his  blanket, 
rolled  himself  in  it  with  his  feet  close  to  the 
red  embers.  For  a  long  time  he  lay  awake. 
This  episode  took  him  back  nearly  a  decade, 
to  a  time  when  he,  like  Danton,  would  have  lost 
his  poise  at  a  glance  from  the  nearest  pair  of 
eyes.  That  the  maid  should  so  interest  him 
was  in  itself  amusing.  Had  she  been  older 
or  younger,  had  she  been  any  but  the  timid, 
honest  little  woman  that  she  was,  he  would 
have  left  her,  without  a  second  thought,  in  the 
care  of  the  Commandant  at  Montreal,  to  be 
escorted  through  the  rapids  by  some  later  party. 
But  he  had  fixed  his  mind  on  getting  her  to 
Frontenac,  and  the  question  was  settled.  His 
last  thought  that  night  was  of  her  quiet  laugh- 
ter and  her  friendly,  hesitating  "good-night." 

He  was  awakened  in  the  half  light  before 
the  sunrise  by  a  step  on  the  twigs.  At  a  little 
distance  through  the  trees  was  the  maid,  walk- 
ing down  toward  the  water.  She  slipped  easily 
between  the  briers,  holding  her  skirt  close. 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS   HER  BREAKFAST.    55 

From  a  spring,  not  a  hundred  yards  up  the 
hillside,  a  brook  came  tumbling  to  the  river, 
picking  its  way  under  and  over  the  stones  and 
the  fallen  trees,  and  trickling  over  the  bank 
with  a  low  murmur.  The  maid  stopped  by  a 
pool,  and  kneeling  on  a  flat  rock,  dipped  her 
hands. 

The  others  were  asleep.  A  rod  away  lay 
Danton,  a  sprawling  heap  in  his  blanket.  Me- 
nard  rose,  tossed  his  blanket  upon  his  bundle, 
and  walked  slowly  down  toward  the  maid. 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  rise  with  the  birds." 

She  looked  around,  and  laughed  gently.  He 
saw  that  she  had  frankly  accepted  the  first  little 
change  in  their  relations. 

"  I  like  to  be  with  the  birds,  M'sieu." 

Menard  had  no  small  talk.  He  was  think- 
ing of  her  evident  lack  of  sleep. 

"  It  is  the  best  hour  for  the  river,  Mademoi- 
selle." The  colours  of  the  dawn  were  beginning 
to  creep  up  beyond  the  eastern  bank,  sending 
a  lance  of  red  and  gold  into  a  low  cloud  bank, 
and  a  spread  of  soft  crimson  close  after.  "  Per- 
haps you  are  fond  of  the  fish  ?  " 

The  maid  was  kneeling  to  pick  a  cluster  of 
yellow  flower  cups.  She  looked  up  and  nodded, 
with  a  smile. 


56  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  We  fished  at  home,  M'sieu." 

"We  will  go,"  said  Menard,  abruptly.  "I 
will  bring,  down  the  canoe." 

He  threw  the  blankets  to  one  side,  and  stoop- 
ing under  the  long  canoe,  carried  it  on  his 
shoulders  to  the  water.  A  line  and  hook  were 
in  his  bundle ;  the  bait  was  ready  at  a  turn  of 
the  grass  and  weeds. 

"  We  are  two  adventurers,"  he  said  lightly,  as 
he  tossed  the  line  into  the  canoe,  and  held  out 
one  of  the  paddles.  "  You  should  do  your 
share  of  the  morning's  work,  Mademoiselle." 

She  laughed  again,  and  took  the  paddle. 
They  pushed  off;  the  maid  kneeling  at  the 
bow,  Menard  in  the  stern.  He  guided  the 
canoe  against  the  current.  The  water  lay  flat 
under  the  still  air,  reflecting  the  gloomy  trees 
on  the  banks,  and  the  deepening  colours  of  the 
sky.  He  fell  into  a  lazy,  swinging  stroke, 
watching  the  maid.  Her  arms  and  shoulders 
moved  easily,  with  the  grace  of  one  who  had 
tumbled  about  a  canoe  from  early  childhood. 

"  Ready,  Mademoiselle  ?  "  He  was  heading 
for  a  deep  pool  near  a  line  of  rushes.  The 
maid,  laying  down  her  paddle,  reached  back 
for  the  line,  and  put  on  the  bait  with  her  own 
fingers. 


N 

MADEMOISELLE   EATS   HER   BREAKFAST.    57 

Menard  held  the  canoe  steady  against  the 
current,  which  was  there  but  a  slow  movement, 
while  she  lowered  the  hook  over  the  bow. 
They  sat  without  a  word  for  some  minutes. 
Once  he  spoke,  in  a  bantering  voice,  and  she 
motioned  to  him  to  be  quiet.  Her  brows  were 
drawn  down  clos.e  together. 

It  was  but  a  short  time  before  she  felt  a  jerk 
at  the  line.  Her  arms  straightened  out,  and  she 
pressed  her  lips  tightly  together.  "  Quick ! " 
she  said.  "  Go  ahead  !  " 

V  Can  you  hold  it  ? "  he  asked,  as  he  dipped 
his  paddle. 

She  nodded.  "  I  wish  the  line  were  longer. 
It  will  be  hard  to  give  him  any  room."  She 
wound  the  cord  around  her  wrist.  "  Will  the 
line  hold,  M'sieu?" 

"  I  think  so.     See  if  you  can  pull  in." 

She  leaned  back,  and  pulled  steadily,  then 
shook  her  head.  "  Not  very  much.  Perhaps, 
if  you  can  get  into  the  shallow  water  — • " 

Menard  slowly  worked  the  canoe  through  an 
opening  in  the  rushes.  There  was  a  thrashing 
about  and  plunging  not  two  rods  away.  Once 
the  fish  leaped  clear  of  the  water  in  a  curve  of 
flashing  silver. 

"  It's  a  salmon,"  he  said.     "  A  small  one." 


58  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

The  maid  held  hard,  but  the  colour  had  gone 
from  her  face.  The  canoe  drew  nearer  to  the 
shore. 

"  Hold  fast,"  said  Menard.  He  gave  a  last 
sweep  of  the  paddle,  and  crept  forward  to  the 
bow.  Kneeling  behind  the  maid,  he  reached 
over  her  shoulder,  and  took  the  line  below 
her  hand. 

"  Careful,  M'sieu  ;  it  may  break." 

"  We  must  risk  it."  He  pulled  slowly  in 
until  the  fish  was  close  under  the  gunwale. 
"  Now  can  you  hold  ?  " 

"  Yes."  She  shook  a  straying  lock  of  hair 
from  her  eyes,  and  took  another  turn  of  the 
cord  around  her  wrist. 

"  Steady,"  he  said.  He  drew  his  knife,  leaned 
over  the  gunwale,  and  stabbed  at  the  fighting 
fish  until  his  blade  sank  in  just  below  the  gills, 
and  he  could  lift  it  aboard. 

The  maid  laughed  nervously,  and  rested  her 
hands  upon  the  two  gunwales.  Her  breath 
was  gone,  and  there  was  a  red  mark  around 
her  wrist  where  the  cord  had  been.  The  canoe 
had  drifted  into  the  rushes,  and  Menard  went 
back  to  his  paddle,  and  worked  out  again  into 
the  channel. 

"  And  now,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said, "  we  shall 


MADEMOISELLE   EATS   HER   BREAKFAST.    59 

have  a  breakfast  of  our  own.  You  need  not 
paddle.  I  will  take  her  down." 

Her  breath  was  coming  back.  She  laughed, 
and  sat  comfortably  in  the  bow,  facing  Menard, 
and  letting  her  eyes  follow  the  steady  swing 
and  catch  of  his  paddle.  When  they  reached 
the  camp,  the  voyageurs  were  astir,  but  Danton 
and  the  priest  still  slept.  The  first  red  glare 
of  the  sun  was  levelled  at  them  over  the  eastern 
trees. 

Menard  made  a  fire  under  an  arch  of  flat 
stones,  and  trimming  a  strip  of  oak  wood  with 
his  hatchet,  he  laid  the  cleaned  fish  upon  it  and 
kept  it  on  the  fire  until  it  was  brown  and  crisp. 
The  maid  sat  by,  her  eyes  alert  and  her  cheeks 
flushed. 

Danton  was  awake  before  the  fish  was 
cooked,  and  he  stood  about  with  a  pretence 
of  not  observing  them.  The  maid  was  fairly 
aroused.  She  drew  him  into  the  talk,  and 
laughed  and  bantered  with  the  two  men  as 
prettily  as  they  could  have  wished  from  a 
Quebec  belle. 

All  during  the  morning  Danton  was  silent. 
At  noon,  when  the  halt  was  made  for  the  mid- 
day lunch,  he  was  still  puzzling  over  the 
apparent  understanding  between  Mademoiselle 


60  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

and  the  Captain.  Before  the  journey  was  taken 
up,  he  stood  for  a  moment  near  Menard,  on  the 
river  bank. 

"  Captain,"  he  said,  "  you  asked  me  last  night 
to  —  " 

"Well?" 

"  It  may  be  that  I  have  misunderstood  you. 
Of  course,  if  Mademoiselle  —  if  you  —  "  He 
caught  himself. 

Menard  smiled ;  then  he  read  the  earnest- 
ness beneath  the  boy's  confusion,  and  sobered. 

"  Mademoiselle  and  I  went  fishing,  Danton. 
Result,  —  Mademoiselle  eats  her  first  meal.  If 
you  can  do  as  much  you  shall  have  my  thanks, 
And  now  remember  that  you  are  a  lieutenant 
in  the  King's  service." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  LONG  ARROW. 

TV /I  ENARD  allowed  a  halt  of  but  a  few  hours 
*  *  *  at  Three  Rivers.  The  settlement  held  little 
of  interest,  for  all  the  resident  troops  and  most 
of  the  farmers  and  engages  had  gone  up  the 
river  to  join  the  army  which  was  assembling  at 
Montreal.  The  close  of  the  first  week  out  of 
Quebec  saw  the  party  well  on  the  second  half 
of  the  journey  to  Montreal.  As  they  went  on, 
Menard's  thoughts  were  drawn  more  deeply 
into  the  work  that  lay  ahead,  and  in  spite  of  his 
efforts  at  lightness,  the  work  of  keeping  up  the 
maid's  spirits  fell  mostly  to  Danton  (though 
Father  Claude  did  what  he  could).  As  matters 
gradually  became  adjusted,  Danton's  cheery, 
hearty  manner  began  to  tell ;  and  now  that 
there  was  little  choice  of  company,  the  maid 
turned  to  him  for  her  diversion. 

On   the    morning   of   the    second   day  after 
leaving  Three  Rivers,  the  two  voyageurs  were 

6l 


62  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

carrying  the  canoe  to  the  water  when  Guerin 
slipped  on  a  wet  log,  throwing  the  canoe  to  the 
ground,  and  tearing  a  wide  rent  in  the  bark. 
Menard  was  impatient  at  this  carelessness. 
The  knowledge  that  the  Three  Rivers  detach- 
ment had  already  gone  on  to  Montreal  had 
decided  him  to  move  more  rapidly,  and  he  had 
given  orders  that  they  should  start  each  day  in 
the  first  light  of  the  dawn.  This  was  a  chill 
morning.  A  low,  heavy  fog  lay  on  the  river, 
thinning,  at  a  yard  above  the  water,  into  a  light 
mist  which  veiled  what  colour  may  have  been 
in  the  east. 

While  Guerin  and  Perrot  were  patching  the 
canoe  under  Menard's  eye,  Danton  found  some 
dry  logs  under  the  brush,  and  built  up  the  dying 
fire,  which  was  in  a  rocky  hollow,  not  visible 
from  the  river.  Then  he  and  the  maid  sat  on 
the  rocks  above  it,  where  they  could  get  the 
warmth,  and  yet  could  see  the  river.  Menard 
and  his  men,  though  only  a  few  rods  away, 
were  but  blurred  forms  as  they  moved  about 
the  canoe,  gumming  the  new  seams. 

The  maid,  save  for  an  occasional  heavy  hour 
in  the  late  evenings,  had  settled  into  a  cheerful 
frame  of  mind.  The  novelty,  and  the  many 
exciting  moments  of  the  journey,  as  well  as  the 


THE   LONG  ARROW.  63 

kindness  of  the  three  men,  kept  her  thoughts 
occupied.  Danton,  once  he  had  shaken  off  his 
sulky  fits,  was  good  company.  They  sat  side 
by  side  on  the  rock,  looking  down  at  the  strug- 
gling fire,  or  at  the  figures  moving  about  the 
canoe,  or  out  into  the  white  mystery  of  the 
river,  talking  easily  in  low  tones  of  themselves 
and  their  lives  and  hopes. 

The  mist,  instead  of  rising,  seemed  to  settle 
closer  to  the  water,  as  the  broad  daylight  came 
across  the  upper  air.  The  maid  and  Danton 
fell  into  silence  as  the  picture  brightened.  Dan- 
ton  was  less  sensitive  than  she  to  the  whims  of 
nature,  and  tiring  of  the  scene,  he  was  gazing 
down  into  the  fire  when  the  maid,  without  a 
word,  touched  his  arm.  He  looked  up  at  her ; 
then,  seeing  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
river,  followed  her  gaze.  Not  more  than  a 
score  of  yards  from  the  shore,  moving  silently 
through  the  mist,  were  the  heads  of  three  Ind- 
ians. Their  profiles  stood  out  clearly  against 
the  white  background ;  their  shoulders  seemed 
to  dissolve  into  the  fog.  They  passed  slowly 
on  up  the  stream,  looking  straight  ahead,  with- 
out a  twitch  of  the  eyelids,  like  a  vision  from 
the  happy  hunting-ground. 

Danton    slipped   down    from    the    rock,  and 


64  THE    ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

stepped  lightly  to  Menard,  pointing  out  the 
three  heads  just  as  they  were  fading  into  the 
whiteness  about  them.  Menard  motioned  to 
Guerin  and  Perrot  to  get  the  newly  patched 
canoe  into  the  water,  took  three  muskets,  and 
in  a  moment  pushed  off,  leaving  Danton  with 
the  maid  and  the  priest,  who  had  retired  a  short 
distance  for  his  morning  prayers.  For  a  minute 
the  heads  of  the  three  white  men  were  in  sight 
above  the  fog,  then  they  too  were  swallowed  up. 

"  I  wonder  what  Menard  thinks  about  them  ?" 
said  Danton,  going  back  toward  the  maid. 

She  was  still  looking  at  the  mist,  and  did  not 
hear  him,  so  he  took  a  seat  at  the  foot  of  the 
rock  and  rubbed  the  hammer  of  his  musket, 
which  had  been  rusted  by  the  damp.  After  a 
time  the  maid  looked  toward  him. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Danton  replied.  "  They 
were  going  up-stream  in  a  canoe,  I  suppose. 
Probably  he  thinks  they  can  give  us  some 
information." 

In  a  few  minutes,  during  which  the  mist  was 
clearing  under  the  rays  of  the  sun,  the  two 
canoes  together  came  around  a  wooded  point 
and  beached.  The  Indians  walked  silently  to 
the  fire.  They  appeared  not  to  see  Danton  and 


The   Indians   walked  silently   to  the   tire." 


THE    LONG   ARROW.  65 

the  maid.  Menard  paused  to  look  over  his 
canoe.  It  was  leaking  badly,  and  before  join- 
ing the  group  at  the  fire,  he  set  the  canoemen 
at  work  making  a  new  patch. 

"  Danton,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  when  he 
reached  the  fire,  "  find  the  Father." 

Danton  hurried  away,  and  Menard  turned  to 
the  largest  of  the  three  Indians,  who  wore  the 
brightest  blanket,  and  had  a  peculiar  wampum 
collar,  decorated  in  mosaic-like  beadwork. 

"  You  are  travellers,  like  ourselves,"  he  said, 
in  the  Iroquois  tongue.  "  We  cannot  let  you 
pass  without  a  word  of  greeting.  I  see  that 
you  are  of  the  Onondagas,  my  brothers.  It 
may  be  that  you  are  from  the  Mission  at  the 
Sault  St.  Francis  Xavier  ?  " 

The  Indian  bowed.  "  We  go  from  Three 
Rivers  to  Montreal." 

"  I,  too,  am  taking  my  party  to  Montreal." 
Menard  thought  it  wise  to  withhold  the  further 
facts  of  his  journey.  "  Have  you  brothers  at 
Three  Rivers  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  the  Indian.  "  We  have  been 
sent  with  a  paper  from  the  Superior  at  Sault 
St.  Francis  Xavier  to  the  good  fathers  at  Three 
Rivers.  Now  we  are  on  our  return  to  the 
Mission." 


66  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Have  my  brothers  eaten  ? "  Menard  mo- 
tioned toward  the  fire.  "  It  is  still  early  in  the 
day." 

The  three  bowed.  "  We  are  travelling  fast," 
said  the  spokesman,  "for  the  Superior  awaits 
our  return.  We  ate  before  the  light.  It  will 
soon  be  time  for  us  to  go  on  our  journey." 

Menard  saw  Father  Claude  and  Danton  ap- 
proaching, and  waited  for  them.  The  face  of 
the  large  Indian  seemed  like  some  other  face 
that  had  had  a  place  in  his  memory.  It  was  not 
unlikely  that  he  had  known  this  warrior  dur- 
ing his  captivity,  when  half  a  thousand  braves 
had  been  to  him  as  brothers.  The  Indian  was 
apparently  of  middle  age,  and  had  lines  of  dig- 
nity and  authority  in  his  face  that  made  it  hard 
to  accept  him  as  a  subdued  resident  at  the  Mis- 
sion. But  Menard  knew  that  no  sign  of  doubt 
or  suspicion  must  appear  in  his  face,  so  he 
waited  for  the  priest.  The  Indians  sat  with 
their  knees  drawn  up  and  their  blankets 
wrapped  about  them,  looking  stolidly  at  the 
fire. 

Father  Claude  came  quietly  into  the  group, 
and  with  a  smile  extended  his  hand  to  the 
smallest  of  the  three,  an  older  man,  with  a 
wrinkled  face.  "  I  did  not  look  for  you  here, 


THE   LONG  ARROW.  67 

Teganouan.  Have  you  gone  back  to  the 
Mission  ? " 

Teganouan  returned  the  smile,  and    bowed. 

"  My  brother  has  told  the  white  man  of  our 
errand  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Menard,  "  they  have  been  sent 
to  Three  Rivers  by  the  Superior,  and  are  now 
returning.  I  have  told  them  that  we,  too,  are 
going  to  Montreal." 

The  priest  took  the  hint.  "  We  shall  meet 
you  and  your  brothers  again,  Teganouan. 
They  are  newcomers  at  the  Mission,  I  believe. 
Thsy  had  not  come  when  I  left." 

"  No,  Father.  They  have  but  last  week  become 
Christians.  The  Long  Arrow  "  (inclining  his 
head  toward  the  large  Indian) "has  lost  a  son,  and 
through  his  suffering  was  led  to  take  the  faith." 

The  Long  Arrow,  who  had  seemed  to  lose 
interest  in  the  conversation  as  soon  as  he  had 
finished  speaking,  here  rose. 

"  My  brothers  and  the  good  Father  will  give 
us  their  blessing  ?  The  end  of  the  journey  is 
yet  three  days  away.  I  had  hoped  that  we 
might  be  permitted  to  accept  the  protection  of 
the  son  of  Onontio,"  —  he  looked  at  Menard, 
—  "  but  I  see  that  his  canoe  will  not  be  ready 
for  the  journey  before  the  sun  is  high."  He 


68  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

looked  gravely  from  Menard  to  the  priest,  then 
walked  to  the  shore,  followed  by  the  others. 
They  pushed  off,  and  shortly  disappeared 
around  the  point  of  land. 

Menard  gave  them  no  attention,  but  as  soon  as 
they  were  gone  from  sight,  he  turned  to  the  priest. 

"  Well,  Father,  what  do  you  make  of  that  ?  " 

Father  Claude  shook  his  head. 

"  Nothing,  as  yet,  M'sieu.  Do  you  know 
who  the  large  man  is  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  seem  to  remember  him.  And 
what  is  more  to  the  point,  he  certainly  remem- 
bers me." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  He  recognized  me  on  the  river.  He  came 
back  with  me  so  willingly  because  he  wanted 
to  know  more  about  us.  That  was  plain. 
It  would  be  well,  Father,  to  enquire  at  the 
Mission.  We  should  know  more  of  them 
and  their  errand  at  Three  Rivers." 

Menard  called  Danton,  and  walked  with  him 
a  little  way  into  the  wood. 

"  Danton,"  he  said,  "  you  are  going  through 
this  journey  with  us,  and  I  intend  that  you 
shall  know  about  such  matters  as  this  meeting 
with  the  Onondagas." 

"  Oh,  they  were  Onondagas  ?  " 


THE    LONG   ARROW.  69 

"  Yes.  They  claim  to  be  Mission  Indians, 
but  neither  the  Father  nor  I  altogether  believe 
them."  In  a  few  sentences  Menard  outlined  the 
conversation.  "  Now,  Danton,  this  may  or  may 
not  be  an  important  incident.  I  want  you  to 
know  the  necessity  for  keeping  our  own  counsel 
in  all  such  matters,  dropping  no  careless  words, 
and  letting  no  emotions  show.  I  wish  you 
would  make  a  point  of  learning  the  Iroquois 
language.  Father  Claude  will  help  you.  You 
are  to  act  as  my  right-hand  man,  and  you  may 
as  well  begin  now  to  learn  to  draw  your  own 
conclusions  from  an  Indian's  words." 

Danton  took  eagerly  to  the  lessons  with 
Father  Claude,  for  they  seemed  another  defi- 
nite step  toward  the  excitement  that  surely,  to 
his  mind,  lay  in  wait  ahead.  The  studying 
began  on  that  afternoon,  while  they  were  toil- 
ing up  against  the  stream. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  dusk  was  coming 
down,  and  the  little  camp  was  ready  for  the 
night,  Menard  came  up  from  the  heap  of  stores, 
where  the  voyageurs  had  already  stretched  out, 
and  found  the  maid  sitting  alone  by  the  fire. 
Danton,  in  his  rush  of  interest  in  the  new  study, 
had  drawn  Father  Claude  aside  for  another 
lesson. 


70  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC 

"  Mademoiselle  is  lonely  ?  "  asked  Menard, 
sitting  beside  her. 

"  No,  no,  M'sieu.  I  have  too  many  thoughts 
for  that." 

"  What  interesting  thoughts  they  must  be." 

"  They  are,  M'sieu.  They  are  all  about  the 
Indians  this  morning.  Tell  me,  M'sieu, — 
they  called  you  Onontio.  What  does  it 
mean  ? " 

"  They  called  me  the  son  of  Onontio,  because 
of  my  uniform.  Onontio,  the  Great  Mountain, 
is  their  name  for  the  Governor ;  and  the  Gov- 
ernor's soldiers  are  to  them  his  sons." 

"  They  speak  a  strange  language.  It  is  not 
the  same  as  that  of  the  Ottawas,  who  once 
worked  for  my  father." 

"  Did  you  know  their  tongue  ?  " 

"  A  few  words,  and  some  of  the  signs.  This," 
—  raising  her  hand,  with  the  first  finger  ex- 
tended, and  slowly  moving  her  arm  in  a  half 
circle  from  horizon  to  horizon, — "this  meant  a 
sun,  —  one  day." 

Menard  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  si- 
lence. He  enjoyed  her  enthusiasm. 

"  Why  don't  you  learn  Iroquois  ?  You  would 
enjoy  it.  It  is  a  beautiful  tongue,  —  the  lan« 
guage  of  metaphor  and  poetry." 


THE   LONG   ARROW.  71 

"  I  should  like  to,"  she  replied,  looking  with 
a  faint  smile  at  Danton  and  the  priest,  who 
were  sitting  under  a  beech  tree,  mumbling  in 
low  tones. 

"  You  shall  join  the  class,  Mademoiselle. 
You  shall  begin  to-morrow.  It  was  thought- 
less of  Danton  to  take  the  Father's  instruction 
to  himself  alone." 

"  And  then,  M'sieu,  I  will  know  what  the 
Indians  say  when  they  sit  up  stiffly  in  their 
blankets,  and  talk  down  in  their  throats.  They 
have  such  dignity.  It  is  hard  not  to  believe 
them  when  they  look  straight  at  one." 

"  Don't  you  believe  them  ?  " 

"  The  three  this  morning,  —  they  did  not 
tell  the  truth." 

"  Didn't  they  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  understood  that  you  did  not  believe 
them." 

"  And  where  did  Mademoiselle  learn  that  ? 
Did  she  follow  the  conversation  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  Lieutenant  Danton  —  " 

"  He  told  you  ?  " 

She  nodded.     Menard  frowned. 

"  He  shouldn't  have  done  that." 

The  maid  looked  surprised  at  his  remark, 
and  the  smile  left  her  face.  "  Of  course, 


72  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

M'sieu,"  she  said,  a  little  stiffly,  "whatever  is 
not  meant  for  my  ears  —  " 

Menard  was  still  frowning,  and  he  failed  to 
notice  her  change  in  manner.  He  abruptly 
gave  the  conversation  a  new  turn,  but  seeing 
after  a  short  time  that  the  maid  had  lost  inter- 
est in  his  sallies,  he  rose,  and  called  to  the 
priest. 

"  Father,  you  are  to  have  a  new  pupil. 
Mademoiselle  also  will  study  the  language  of 
the  Iroquois.  If  you  are  quick  enough  with 
your  pupils,  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  hold  a  con- 
versation each  night  about  the  fire.  Perhaps, 
if  you  would  forego  your  exclusive  air,  Mademoi- 
selle would  begin  at  once." 

Danton,  without  waiting  for  the  priest  to 
start,  came  hurriedly  over  and  sat  by  the  maid. 

"  You  must  pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not 
think,  —  I  did  not  know  that  you  would  be 
interested.  It  is  so  dry." 

The  maid  smiled  at  the  fire. 

"  You  did  not  ask,"  she  replied,  "  and  I  could 
not  offer  myself  to  the  class." 

"  It  will  be  splendid,"  said  Danton.  "  We 
shall  learn  the  language  of  the  trees  and  the 
grass  and  the  rivers  and  the  birds.  And  the 
message  of  the  wampum  belt,  too,  we  .shall 


THE   LONG  ARROW.  73 

know.  You  see,"  —  looking  up  at  Menard, — 
"  already  I  am  catching  the  meanings." 

Menard  smiled,  and  then  went  down  the 
bank,  leaving  the  three  to  bend  their  heads 
together  over  the  mysteries  of  the  Iroquois 
rules  of  gender,  written  out  by  Father  Claude 
on  a  strip  of  bark.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  later, 
after  the  maid  had  crept  to  her  couch  beneath 
the  canoe,  and  Perrot  and  Guerin  had  sprawled 
upon  the  bales  and  were  snoring  in  rival  keys, 
that  Danton  came  lightly  down  the  slope  hum- 
ming a  drinking  song.  He  saw  Menard,  and 
dropped  to  the  ground  beside  him,  with  a  low 
laugh. 

"  Mademoiselle  will  lead  my  wits  a  chase, 
Menard.  Already  she  is  deep  in  the  spirit  of 
the  new  work." 

"  Be  careful,  my  boy,  that  she  leads  no  more 
than  your  wits  a  chase." 

Danton  laughed  again. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  great  danger.  What 
a  voice  she  has !  I  did  not  know  it  at  first, 
when  she  was  frightened  and  spoke  only  in  the 
lower  tones.  Now  when  she  speaks  or  laughs 
it  is  like  —  " 

"  Like  what  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  fit  simile  in  our  tongue,  light 


74  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

as  it  is.  It  may  be  that  in  the  Iroquois  I  shall 
find  the  words.  It  should  be  something  about 
the  singing  brooks  or  the  voice  of  the  leaves  at 
night." 

The  lad  was  in  such  buoyant  spirits  that 
Menard  had  to  harden  himself  for  the  rebuke 
which  he  must  give.  With  the  Indian  tribes 
Menard  had  the  tact,  the  control  of  a  situation, 
that  would  have  graced  a  council  of  great 
chiefs ;  but  in  matters  of  discipline,  the  blunter 
faculties  and  language  of  the  white  men  seemed 
to  give  his  wit  no  play.  Now,  as  nearly  always, 
he  spoke  abruptly. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  our  talk  of  this  morning, 
Danton  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  the  boy,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

The  night  had  none  of  the  dampness  that 
had  left  a  white  veil  over  the  morning  just 
gone.  The  moon  was  half  hidden  behind  the 
western  trees.  The  sky,  for  all  the  dark,  was 
blue  and  deep,  set  with  thousands  of  stars, 
each  looking  down  at  its  mate  in  the  shining 
water. 

"  I  spoke  of  the  importance  of  keeping  our 
own  counsel." 

Danton  began  to  feel  what  was  coming.  He 
looked  down  at  the  ground  without  replying. 


THE   LONG   ARROW.  75 

"  To-night  Mademoiselle  has  repeated  a  part 
of  our  conversation." 

"  Mademoiselle,  —  why,  she  is  one  of  our 
party.  She  knows  about  us,  —  who  we  are, 
what  we  are  going  for  —  " 

"  Then  you  have  told  her,  Danton  ?  " 

"  How  could  she  help  knowing  ?  We  are 
taking  her  to  Frontenac." 

"  Father  Claude  has  not  told  her  why  we  go 
to  Frontenac  —  nor  have  I." 

"  But  Major  Provost  is  her  friend  —  " 

"  He  would  never  have  told  her." 

"  But  she  seemed  to  know  about  it." 

"  Then  you  have  talked  it  over  with  her?  " 

"  Why,  no,  —  that  is,  in  speaking  of  our 
journey  we  said  something  of  the  meaning  of 
the  expedition.  It  could  hardly  be  expected 
that  we,  —  I  fail  to  see,  Captain,  what  it  is  you 
are  accusing  me  of." 

"You  have  not  been  accused  yet,  Danton. 
Let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Why  did  you 
enter  the  King's  army  ? " 

Danton  hesitated,  and  started  once  or  twice 
to  frame  answer,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Did  you  wish  a  gay  uniform,  to  please  the 
maids,  to  —  " 

"  You  are  unfair,  M'sieu." 


76  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  No,  I  wish  to  .know.  We  will  say,  if  you 
like,  that  you  have  hoped  to  be  a  soldier,  —  a 
soldier  of  whom  the  King  may  one  day  have 
cause  to  be  proud." 

Danton  flushed,  and  bowed  his  head. 

"  I  offered  you  the  chance  to  go  on  this 
mission,  Danton,  because  I  believed  in  you. 
I  believed  that  you  had  the  making  of  a  soldier. 
This  is  not  a  child's  errand,  this  of  ours.  It  is 
the  work  of  strong  men.  This  morning  I  told 
you  of  my  talk  with  the  three  Onondagas 
because  I  have  planned  to  take  you  into  my 
confidence,  and  to  give  you  the  chance  to  make 
a  name  for  yourself.  I  made  a  point  of  the 
importance  of  keeping  such  things  to  yourself." 

"  But  Mademoiselle,  M'sieu,  she  is  differ- 
ent—" 

"  Look  at  the  facts,  Danton.  I  told  you  this 
morning :  within  twelve  hours  you  have  passed 
on  your  information.  How  do  I  know  that  you 
would  not  have  let  it  slip  to  others  if  you  had 
had  the  chance  ?  You  forget  that  Mademoiselle 
is  a  woman,  and  the  first  and  last  duty  of  a 
soldier  is  to  tell  no  secrets  to  a  woman." 

"  You  speak  wrongly  of  Mademoiselle.  It  is 
cowardly  to  talk  thus." 

Menard  paused  to  get  control  of  his  temper. 


THE   LONG   ARROW.  77 

"  Cowardly,  Danton  ?  Is  that  the  word  you 
apply  to  your  commander  ?  " 

"  Your  pardon,  M'sieu  !  A  thousand  pardons  ! 
It  escaped  me  —  " 

"  We  will  pass  it  by.  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand this  matter.  Mademoiselle  will  spend  a 
night  in  Montreal.  We  shall  leave  her  with 
other  women.  A  stray  word,  which  to  her 
might  mean  nothing,  might  be  enough  to  give 
the  wrong  persons  a  hint  of  the  meaning  of  our 
journey.  A  moment's  nervousness  might  slip 
the  bridle  from  her  tongue.  All  New  France 
is  not  so  loyal  that  we  can  afford  to  drop  a 
chance  secret  here  and  there.  As  to  this  maid, 
she  is  only  a  child,  and  by  giving  her  our 
secrets,  you  are  forcing  her  to  bear  a  burden 
which  we  should  bear  alone.  These  Indians 
this  morning  were  spies,  I  am  inclined  to 
believe,  scouting  along  the  river  for  informa- 
tion of  the  coming  campaign.  The  only  way 
that  we^can  feel  secure  is  by  letting  no  word 
escape  our  lips,  no  matter  how  trivial.  I  tell 
you  this,  not  so  much  for  this  occasion  as  for  a 
suggestion  for  the  future." 

"  Very  well,  M'sieu.  You  will  please  accept 
my  complete  apologies." 

"  I  shall    have   to  add,  Danton,  that  if  any 


78  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

further  mistake  of  this  kind  occurs  I  shall  be 
forced  to  dismiss  you  from  my  service.  Now 
that  I  have  said  this,  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  I  don't  expect  it  to  happen.  I  have  be- 
lieved in  you,  Danton,  and  I  stand  ready  to  be 
a  friend  to  you." 

Menard  held  out  his  hand.  Danton  clasped 
it  nervously,  mumbling  a  second  apology.  For 
a  few  moments  longer  they  sat  there,  Menard 
trying  to  set  Danton  at  ease,  but  the  boy  was 
flushed,  and  he  spoke  only  half  coherently. 
He  soon  excused  himself  and  wandered  off 
among  the  trees  and  the  thick  bushes. 

During  the  next  day  Danton  was  in  one  of 
his  sullen  moods.  He  worked  feverishly,  and, 
with  the  maid,  kept  Father  Claude  occupied 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  as  they  paddled 
on,  with  conversation,  and  with  discussion  of 
the  Iroquois  words.  The  maid  felt  the  change 
from  the  easy  relations  in  the  party,  and 
seemed  a  little  depressed,  but  she  threw  her- 
self into  the  studying.  Often  during  the  day 
she  would  take  up  a  paddle,  and  join  in  the 
stroke.  At  first  Menard  protested,  but  she 
laughed,  and  said  that  it  was  a  "  rest "  after 
sitting  so  long. 

They  were  delayed  on  the  following  day  by 


THE   LONG   ARROW.  79 

a  second  accident  to  the  canoe,  so  that  they 
were  a  full  day  late  in  reaching  Montreal. 
They  moved  slowly  up  the  channel,  past  the 
islands  and  the  green  banks  with  their  little  log- 
houses  or,  occasionally,  larger  dwellings  built 
after  the  French  manner.  St.  Helen's  Island, 
nearly  opposite  the  city,  had  a  straggling  cluster 
of  hastily  built  bark  houses,  and  a  larger  group 
of  tents  where  the  regulars  were  encamped, 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  Governor  Denonville 
with  the  troops  from  Quebec. 

Menard  stopped  at  the  island,  guiding  the 
canoe  to  the  bank  where  a  long  row  of  canoes 
and  bateaux  lay  close  to  the  water. 

"  You  might  get  out  and  walk  around,"  he 
said  to  the  others.  "  I  shall  be  gone  only  a  few 
moments." 

Father  Claude  sat  on  the  bank,  lost  in  medi- 
tation. Danton  and  the  maid  walked  together 
slowly  up  and  down,  beyond  earshot  from  the 
priest.  Since  Menard's  rebuke,  both  the  lad 
and  the  maid  had  shown  a  slight  trace  of  resent- 
ment. It  did  not  come  out  in  their  conversa- 
tion, but  rather  in  their  silences,  and  in  the 
occasions  which  they  took  to  sit  and  walk  apart 
from  the  others.  It  was  as  if  a  certain  common 
ground  of  interest  had  come  to  them.  The 


8o  THE    ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

maid,  for  all  her  shyness  and  even  temper,  was 
not  accustomed  to  such  cool  authority  as  Me- 
nard  was  developing.  The  priest  was  keeping 
an  eye  on  the  fast-growing  acquaintanceship, 
and  already  had.  it  vaguely  in  mind  to  call  it 
to  the  attention  of  Menard,  who  was  getting 
too  deeply  into  the  spirit  and  the  details  of  his 
work  to  give  much  heed. 

Menard  was  soon  back. 

"Push  off,"  he  said.  "The  Major  is  not 
here.  We  shall  have  to  look  for  him  in  the 
city." 

They  headed  across  the  stream.  The  city 
lay  before  them,  on  its  gentle  slope,  with  the 
mountain  rising  behind  like  an  untiring  sentry. 
It  was  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  on  the  river 
were  many  canoes  and  small  boats,  filled  with 
soldiers,  friendly  Indians,  or  voyageurs,  moving 
back  and  forth  between  the  island  and  the  city. 
They  passed  close  to  many  of  the  bateaux, 
heaped  high  with  provision  and  ammunition 
bales,  and  more  than  once  the  lounging  sol- 
diers rose  and  saluted  Menard. 

At  the  city  wharf  he  turned  to  Danton. 

"  We  shall  have  to  get  a  larger  canoe,  Dan- 
ton,  and  a  stronger.  Will  you  see  to  it,  please  ? 
We  shall  have  two  more  in  our  party  from  now 


THE    LONG   ARROW.  81 

on.  Make  sure  that  the  canoe  is  in  the  best  of 
condition.  Also  I  wish  you  would  see  to  get- 
ting the  rope  and  the  other  things  we  may  need 
in  working  through  the  rapids.  Then  spend 
your  time  as  you  like.  We  shall  start  early  in 
the  morning." 

Menard  and  Father  Claude  together  went 
with  the  maid  to  the  Superior,  who  arranged 
for  her  to  pass  the  night  with  the  sisters. 
Then  Menard  left  the  priest  to  make  his  final 
arrangements  at  the  Mission,  and  went  himself 
to  see  the  Commandant,  to  whom  he  outlined 
the  bare  facts  of  his  journey  to  Frontenac. 

"  The  thing  that  most  concerns  you,"  he  said 
finally,  "  is  a  meeting  I  had  a  few  days  ago  with 
three  Indians  down  the  river.  One  called  him- 
self the  Long  Arrow,  and  another  was  Tegan- 
ouan,  who,  Father  de  Casson  tells  me,  recently 
left  the  Mission  at  the  Sault  St.  Francis  Xavier. 
They  claim  to  be  Mission  Indians.  It  will  be 
well  to  watch  out  for  them,  and  to  have  an  eye 
on  the  Richelieu,  and  the  other  routes,  to  make 
sure  that  they  don't  slip  away  to  the  south  with 
information." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  Commandant.  "  I  im- 
agine that  we  can  stop  them.  Do  you  feel  safe 
about  taking  this  maid  up  the  river  just  now  ?  " 


82  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Our  men  are  scattered  along  the 
route,  are  they  not  ?  "  Menard  asked. 

"  Quite  a  number  are  out  establishing  Cham- 
pigny's  transport  system." 

"  I  don't  look  for  any  trouble.  But  I  should 
like  authority  for  one  or  two  extra  men." 

"  Take  anything  you  wish,  Menard.  I  will 
get  word  over  to  the  island  at  once,  giving  you 
all  the  authority  you  need." 


CHAPTER  V. 

DANTON  BREAKS  OUT. 

\  A  7 HEN  Menard  reached  the  wharf,  early  on 
*  *  the  following  morning,  he  found  Father 
Claude  waiting  for  him.  The  new  canoe  lay 
on  the  wharf,  and  beside  it  was  a  heap  of  stores. 
Perrot  and  the  two  new  engages  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  wharf.  The  sun  had  just  risen 
over  the  trees  on  St.  Helen's  Island,  and  the 
air  was  clear  and  cool. 

"  Well,  Perrot,"  said  Menard,  as  he  unslung 
his  musket  and  horn,  "  is  everything  ready  ?  " 

"  Everything,  M'sieu." 

"  Where  is  Guerin  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  him,  M'sieu." 

Menard  turned  to  the  priest. 

"  Good-morning,  Father.  You  are  on  time, 
I  see ;  and  that  is  more  than  we  can  say  for 
Danton.  Where  is  the  boy  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone  for  Mademoiselle  St.  Denis, 
Captain.  He  was  here  before  the  sunrise, 
checking  up  the  stores." 

83 


84  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC 

"  Learning  to  work,  is  he  ?  That  is  a  good 
sign.  And  how  about  yourself?  Did  you 
pick  up  anything  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  priest  "  I  enquired  at  the 
Mission  about  Teganouan  and  his  companions." 

"  Well  ? " 

"Nothing  is  known  of  them.  Teganouan 
had  been  one  of  the  worst  drunkards  among 
the  Onondagas,  and  his  conversion,  a  year  ago, 
was  thought  to  be  one  of  our  greatest  victories 
for  the  faith.  His  penances  were  among  the 
most  complete  and  purging  ever  —  " 

"  And  the  others  ?  " 

"  Just  before  I  left  the  Mission  for  Quebec, 
Teganouan  went  on  an  errand  to  the  city  and 
fell  among  some  of  our  fellow-countrymen  who 
were  having  a  drinking  bout.  For  a  few  days 
after  that  he  wavered,  and  fell  again.  Once 
afterward  he  was  seen  in  company  with  two 
low  fellows,  coureurs  de  boisy  who  have  since 
been  confined  under  suspicion  of  communi- 
cating with  the  enemy." 

"  He  has  returned  to  the  Mission,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  he  disappeared  some  time  ago.  They 
do  not  know  the  Long  Arrow.  I  described 
him  to  Brother  de  Lamberville  —  " 

"  Oh,  he  is  here  now  ?  " 


DANTON   BREAKS  OUT.  85 

"  Yes.  It  seems,  further,  that  all  the  other 
workers  among  the  Iroquois  have  had  word  and 
are  returning.  That  much  of  my  labour  is  re- 
moved." 

"  How  do  they  get  this  word  ?  "  said  Menard, 
impatiently.  "  That  is  the  old  question.  It  is 
enough  to  make  one  wonder  if  there  are  any 
secrets  kept  from  the  enemy's  country." 

"  No  one  seems  to  know,  M'sieu.  The 
Superior  told  me  last  night  that  they  had  not 
been  sent  for,  so  it  would  seem  that  the 
information  must  have  reached  them  through 
the  Indians." 

"  The  folly  of  these  new  governors  !  "  Me- 
nard strode  back  and  forth.  "  Oh,  it  makes 
one  sigh  for  old  Frontenac.  He  never  walked 
blindfolded  into  such  a  trap  as  this.  But  go 
on.  You  were  speaking  of  Father  de  Lamber- 
ville." 

"  It  was  only  that  I  described  the  Long 
Arrow  to  Brother  de  Lamberville.  He  seemed 
to  remember  such  a  wampum  collar  as  the  Long 
Arrow  wore.  He  could  not  recall  exactly." 

"  Then  we  may  as  well  forget  the  incident. 
It  seems  that  we  are  to  know  nothing  of  it. 
Here  is  Danton." 

The  lieutenant  and  the  maid  were  walking 


86  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

rapidly  down  to  the  wharf.  Mademoiselle  was 
in  a  gay  mood  after  her  few  hours  of  enjoyment 
among  the  comforts  of  a  city. 

"  Good-morning,"  she  called,  waving  her  hand. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Menard,  shortly.  He 
did  not  look  a  second  time,  to  see  her  smile 
fade,  for  Guerin  had  not  appeared,  and  he  was 
rapidly  losing  patience.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  wharf  for  a  few  moments,  while 
Danton  found  a  seat  for  the  maid  and  the 
two  talked  together. 

"  Perrot,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  where 
Guerin  was  last  evening  ?  " 

"  Yes,  M'sieu.     He  was  at  the  inn." 

"  What  was  he  doing?     Drinking  ?  " 

"  A  little,  M'sieu." 

"  Go  up  there,  on  the  run.  If  you  don't  find 
him  there,  come  right  back,  for  we  can't  wait 
much  longer  for  anyone." 

Perrot  ran  up  the  street  and  disappeared. 
In  a  few  moments  he  came  in  sight,  striding 
down  between  the  row  of  houses,  holding 
Guerin  firmly  by  one  arm.  The  young  fellow 
was  hanging  back,  and  stumbling  in  limp  fash- 
ion. He  was  evidently  drunk.  Danton,  who 
had  joined  Menard  when  the  two  men  appeared, 
said,  "Heavens,  he  must  have  started  early!" 


DANTON   BREAKS  OUT.  87 

Some  distance  behind  Perrot  and  Guerin 
came  a  ragged  crowd  of  woodsmen,  singing, 
jeering,  and  shouting,  and  bearing  broad  traces 
of  a  sleepless  night. 

Menard  stood  waiting  with  a  look  of  disgust. 
When  they  came  upon  the  wharf  Guerin 
laughed,  and  tried  to  get  out  a  flippant  apol- 
ogy for  his  tardiness ;  but  Menard  seized  him 
before  the  words  were  off  his  lips,  and  drag- 
ging him  across  the  wharf  threw  him  into  the 
water.  Then  he  turned  to  Perrot,  and  said, 
"  Pull  him  out." 

The  two  new  men  stood  uneasily  near,  with 
startled  faces.  Behind  them  the  maid  was  sit- 
ting, a  frightened  look  in  her  eyes.  Danton 
had  risen. 

"  Clear  away  from  here  !  "  Menard  called  to 
the  drunken  rabble,  who  had  collected  a  few 
rods  away,  and  were  now  hesitating  between 
laughter  and  fright.  They  stood  looking  at 
each  other  and  at  Menard,  then  they  slunk 
away. 

In  all  an  hour  had  gone  before  they  were 
ready  to  start.  Guerin  was  weak  and  shiver- 
ing from  his  plunge,  but  Menard  ordered  him 
into  the  canoe.  The  incident  drew  a  cloud 
over  the  maid's  spirits,  and  altogether  depressed 


88  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

the  party,  so  that  not  until  afternoon  did  they 
get  into  conversation.  By  that  time  they  were 
past  the  Lachine  Rapids  and  the  Sault  St. 
Louis,  where  the  men  made  a  portage,  and 
Danton  led  the  maid  along  the  bank  through 
the  tangled  brush  and  briers.  When  at  last 
they  were  ready  to  push  on  across  Lake  St. 
Louis  the  maid's  skirt  was  torn  in  a  dozen  places, 
and  a  thorn  had  got  into  her  hand,  which  Dan- 
ton  carefully  removed  with  the  point  of  his  knife, 
wincing  and  flushing  with  her  at  each  twinge  of 
pain.  During  the  rest  of  the  day,  they  had  an 
Iroquois  lesson,  and  by  the  end  of  the  afternoon 
when  the  sun  was  low,  and  Menard  headed  for 
the  shore  of  Isle  Perrot,  the  maid  was  bright 
again,  laughing  over  Danton's  blunders  in  the 
new  language. 

They  spent  the  next  day  on  the  island,  for 
what  with  wind  and  rain  the  lake  was  impas- 
sable for  their  canoe.  The  men  built  a  hut  of 
brush  and  bark  which  sheltered  the  party  from 
the  driving  rain.  Menard's  mood  lightened  at 
the  prospect  of  a  rest,  and  he  started  a  long 
conversation  in  Iroquois  which  soon  had  even 
Father  Claude  laughing  in  his  silent  way. 
The  rain  lessened  in  the  afternoon,  but  the 
wind  was  still  running  high.  Menard  and  the 


DANTON   BREAKS  OUT.  89 

engages  went  out  early  in  the  afternoon  and 
repacked  all  the  supplies,  in  order  that  the 
weight  might  be  distributed  more  evenly  in 
the  canoe.  With  this  and  other  work  he  was 
occupied  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  Father 
Claude  took  the  occasion  for  a  solitary  walk, 
and  for  meditation.  When  Menard  entered 
the  hut  he  found  the  maid  sitting  with  her  head 
resting  against  one  of  the  supporting  trees. 
She  wore  a  disturbed,  unsettled  expression. 
Danton  evidently  had  been  sitting  or  standing 
near  her,  for  when  Menard  entered,  stooping, 
he  was  moving  across  the  hut  in  a  hesitating, 
conscious  manner.  The  Captain  looked  at 
them  curiously. 

"  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  take  away  a  part  of 
your  house  to  pay  for  your  supper,"  he  said. 
"  Everything  is  wet  outside  that  might  do  for 
firewood.  Lend  a  hand,  Danton0"  He  gath- 
ered logs  and  sticks  from  the  floor  and  walls, 
and  carried  them  out.  Danton,  after  a  quick 
look  toward  the  maid  (which,  of  course,  Menard 
saw),  did  the  same. 

The  Captain  was  the  first  to  reenter  the  hut. 
The  maid  had  not  moved,  and  her  eyes  were 
puzzled  and  wearied,  but  she  tried  to  smile. 

"  Has  it  stopped  raining?  "  she  asked. 


9o  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Menard  gave  her  an  amused  glance,  and 
pointed  to  a  sparkling  beam  of  sunlight  that 
came  slanting  in  through  an  opening  in  the 
wall,  and  buried  itself  in  a  little  pool  of  light  on 
the  trampled  ground.  She  looked  at  it,  flushed, 
and  turned  her  eyes  away.  He  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment, half  minded  to  ask  the  question  that  was 
on  his  tongue,  but  finally  held  it  back.  In  a 
moment  Danton  came  back,  looking  suspi- 
ciously at  each  of  them  as  he  stooped  to  gather 
another  armful  of  wood. 

Menard  was  thoughtful  during  the  evening 
meal.  Afterward  he  slipped  his  arm  through 
Father  Claude's,  and  led  him  for  a  short  walk, 
giving  him  an  account  of  the  incident.  "  I 
didn't  say  anything  at  the  time,"  he  concluded, 
"  partly  because  I  thought  I  might  be  mistaken, 
and  partly  because  it  would  have  been  the 
worst  thing  I  could  do.  I  begin  to  see  —  I 
should  have  foreseen  it  before  I  spoke  to  him 
about  the  girl  —  that  we  have  trouble  ahead, 
Father,  with  these  precious  children.  I  confess 
I  don't  know  just  what  to  do  about  it.  We 
must  think  it  over.  Anyway,  you  had  better 
talk  to  her.  She  would  tell  you  what  she 
wouldn't  tell  me.  If  he's  annoying  her,  we 
must  know  it," 


DANTON    BREAKS   OUT.  91 

Father  Claude  was  troubled. 

"  The  maid  is  in  our  care,"  he  said,  "  and 
also  in  that  of  Lieutenant  Danton.  It  would 
seem  that  he  —  " 

"  There's  no  use  in  expecting  him  to  take 
any  responsibility,  Father." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  are  right.  He  is  a 
child." 

"  Will  you  go  to  the  maid,  Father,  and  get 
straight  at  the  truth  ?  You  see  that  I  cannot 
meddle  with  her  thoughts  without  danger  of 
being  misinterpreted.  It  is  you  who  must  be 
her  adviser." 

The  priest  acquiesced,  and  they  returned  to 
the  camp,  to  find  the  maid  still  sitting  alone, 
with  a  troubled  face,  and  Danton  puttering 
about  the  fire  with  a  show  of  keeping  himself 
occupied.  They  ate  in  silence,  in  spite  of 
Menard's  efforts  to  arouse  them.  After  the 
meal  they  hung  about,  each  hesitating  to  wan- 
der away,  and  yet  seeing  no  pleasure  in  gather- 
ing about  the  fire.  Menard  saw  that  Father 
Claude  had  it  in  mind  to  speak  to  the  maid,  so 
he  got  Danton  away  on  a  pretext  of  looking 
over  the  stores.  But  he  said  nothing  of  the 
episode  that  was  in  all  their  minds,  preferring 
to  await  the  priest's  report. 


92  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

After  the  maid  had  gone  to  her  couch  be- 
neath the  canoe,  and  Danton  had  wandered 
into  the  wilderness  that  was  all  about  them, 
Father  Claude  joined  Menard  at  the  fire. 

"  Well,  Father,  what  word  ?  " 

"Softly,  M'sieu.  It  is  not  likely  that  she 
sleeps  as  yet." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  I  have  talked  long  with  her,  but  she  is  of  a 
stubborn  mind." 

"  How  is  that  ? " 

"  She  was  angry  at  first.  She  spoke  hastily, 
and  asked  me  in  short  terms  to  leave  her  in 
solitude.  And  then,  after  a  time,  when  she 
began  to  see  that  it  was  her  welfare  and  our 
duty  which  I  had  in  mind,  and  not  an  idle  curi- 
osity, she  was  moved." 

"  Did  she  speak  then  ? " 

"  No,  M'sieu,  she  wept,  and  insisted  that 
there  was  no  trouble  on  her  mind,  —  it  was 
merely  the  thought  of  her  home  and  her  father 
that  had  cast  her  down." 

"And  so  she  has  pride,"  mused  Menard. 
"  Could  you  gather  any  new  opinions,  Father  ? 
Do  you  think  that  they  may  already  have  come 
to  some  understanding  ?  " 

"I    hardly   think   so,    M'sieu.      But   may    I 


DANTON    BREAKS   OUT.  93 

suggest  that  it  would  be  well  to  be  firm  with 
Lieutenant  Danton  ?  He  is  young,  and  the 
maid  is  in  our  trust." 

"  True,  Father.     I  will  account  for  him." 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  further  to  do  at 
the  moment,  so  the  priest  went  to  his  blanket, 
and  Menard  drew  a  bundle  under  his  head  and 
went  to  sleep,  after  a  glance  about  the  camp  to 
see  that  the  sentry  was  on  watch.  Now  that 
Montreal  lay  behind,  and  the  unsettled  forest 
before,  with  only  a  thin  line  of  Frenchmen 
stretched  along  the  river  between  them  and 
Fort  Frontenac,  he  had  divided  the  night  into 
watches,  and  each  of  the  four  engages  stood  his 
turn. 

The  following  day  was  all  but  half  gone 
before  the  wind  had  dropped  to  a  rate  that 
made  the  passage  of  the  lake  advisable. 
Menard  ordered  the  noon  meal  for  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual,  and  shortly  afterward  they 
set  out  across  the  upper  end  of  Lake  St.  Louis 
to  the  foot  of  the  cascades.  Before  the  last 
bundle  had  been  carried  up  the  portage  to 
Buisson  Pointe,  the  dusk  was  settling  over  the 
woods  across  the  river,  and  over  the  rising  ground 
on  Isle  Perrot  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ottawa. 

During  the  next  day  they  passed  on  up  the 


94  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

stream  to  the  Coteau  des  Cedres.  Menard  and 
Father  Claude  were  both  accustomed  to  take 
the  rapid  without  carrying,  or  even  unloading, 
but  Danton  looked  at  the  swirling  water  with 
doubt  in  his  eyes.  When  the  maid,  leaning 
back  in  the  canoe  while  the  men  halted  at  the 
bank  to  make  fast  for  the  passage,  saw  the 
torrent  that  tumbled  and  pitched  merrily  down 
toward  them,  she  laughed.  To  hold  a  sober 
mood  for  long  was  not  in  her  buoyant  nature, 
and  she  welcomed  a  dash  of  excitement  as  a 
relief  from  the  strained  relations  of  the  two 
days  just  gone. 

"  M'sieu,"  she  called  to  Menard,  with  a 
sparkle  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  M'sieu,  may  I  stay 
in  the  canoe  ?  " 

Danton  turned  quickly  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  and  a  look,  half  of  pain,  half  of  surprise, 
came  over  his  face  as  he  saw  her  eagerness. 
Menard  looked  at  her  in  doubt. 

"  It   may  be  a  wet  passage,  Mademoiselle." 

"  And  why  not,  M'sieu  ?  Have  I  not  been 
wet  before  ?  See,  I  will  protect  myself."  She 
drew  the  bundles  closely  about  her  feet,  and 
threw  a  blanket  across  her  knees.  "  Now  I 
can  brave  the  stream,  Captain.  Or,"  —  her 
gay  tone  dropped,  and  she  looked  demurely  at 


DANTON  BREAKS  OUT. 


95 


him,  —  "  perhaps  it  is  that  I  am  too  heavy,  that 
I  should  carry  myself  up  the  bank.  I  will  obey 
my  orders,  Captain."  But  as  she  spoke  she 
tucked  the  blanket  closer  about  her,  and  stole 
another  glance  at  Menard. 

He  smiled.  He  was  thinking  of  Madame 
Gordeau  and  her  fragile  daughter,  who  had 
shuddered  with  fear  at  a  mere  glimpse  of  the 
first  rapid.  "Very  well,"  he  said,  " "Mademoi- 
selle shall  stay  in  the  canoe." 

"But  it  is  not  safe" — broke  in  Danton, 
stepping  forward.  Then,  conscious  of  the  blun- 
der, he  turned  away,  and  took  up  the  rope. 

"  Lay  hold,  boys,"  said  Menard. 

Perrot  and  one  of  the  new  men  waded  into 
the  water,  and  laid  hold  of  the  gunwales  on 
each  side  of  the  bow.  Menard  himself  took 
the  stern.  He  called  to  Danton,  who  stood 
awkwardly  upon  the  bank,  "  Take  the  rope 
with  the  men." 

Guerin  made  the  rope  fast  and  set  out  ahead, 
with  the  other  men  and  Danton  close  behind. 
Father  Claude  rolled  up  his  robe  and  joined 
them. 

"  Wait,"  called  Menard,  as  the  rope  straight- 
ened. "  Mademoiselle,  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you, 
but  if  you  will  sit  farther  back  you  will  have 


96  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

less  trouble  from  the  spray."  He  waded  along 
the  side,  and  helped  her  to  move  nearer  the 
stern,  placing  the  bundles  and  the  blanket 
about  her  as  before.  Then  he  shouted,  "  All 
right,"  and  they  started  into  the  foaming  water. 

They  toiled  slowly  up  the  incline,  catching 
at  rocks  to  steady  their  course,  and  often 
struggling  for  a  foothold.  Once  Menard 
ordered  a  halt  at  a  large  rock,  and  all 
rested  for  a  moment. 

When  they  started  again,  the  men  at  the  bow 
of  the  canoe  had  some  trouble  in  holding  it 
steady,  for  their  feet  were  on  a  stretch  of  smooth 
rock,  and  Menard  called  Danton  back  to  help 
them.  The  boy  worked  his  way  along  the  rope, 
and  reached  the  bow. 

"  Come  around  behind  Perrot,"  said   Menard. 

Danton  reached  around  Perrot's  body,  and 
caught  hold  of  the  gunwale.  At  that  moment 
his  foot  slipped,  and  he  fell,  dragging  the  side 
of  the  canoe  down  with  him.  The  men  at  the 
bow  did  their  best  to  prevent  a  capsize,  but  suc- 
ceeded only  in  keeping  half  the  bundles  in  the 
canoe.  The  others,  the  muskets,  and  the  maid 
went  into  the  river. 

Menard  moved  forward  as  rapidly  as  he  could 
against  the  current.  The  maid  was  unable  at 


DANTON    BREAKS   OUT.  97 

once  to  get  her  feet,  used  as  she  was  to  the 
water,  and  was  swept  down  against  him.  He 
caught  her,  and,  steadying  himself  with  one 
hand,  by  the  water-logged  canoe,  raised  her 
head  and  held  her  while  she  struggled  for  a 

oo 

footing  and  shook  the  water  from  her  eyes. 
Before  she  was  wholly  herself,  Danton  came 
plunging  toward  them. 

"  Give  her  to  me  !  "  he  said  huskily.  "  I've 
drowned  her !  My  God,  let  me  have  her !  " 

"Stop,"  said  Menard,  sternly.  "Take  the 
men,  and  go  after  those  bales  —  quick  !  " 

Danton  looked  stupidly  at  him  and  at  the 
maid,  who  was  wiping  the  water  from  her  face 
with  one  hand,  and  holding  tightly  to  the  Cap- 
tain. Then  he  followed  Perrot,  who  had  already, 
with  the  two  new  men  and  Father  Claude, 
commenced  to  get  together  the  bales,  most  of 
which  had  sunk,  and  were  moving  slowly  along 
the  bottom.  Menard  still  had  his  arm  about 
the  girl's  shoulders.  He  helped  her  to  the 
shore. 

"  Keep  moving,  Mademoiselle,  —  don't  sit 
down.  In  a  moment  we  shall  have  a  fire. 
Father  Claude,"  he  called,  "bring  the  canoe 
ashore."  Then  to  the  maid,  "  There  are  yet 
some  dry  blankets,  thank  God." 


98  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

Mademoiselle  was  herself  now,  and  she  pro- 
tested. "  But  it  is  only  water,  M'sieu.  Let  me 
go  on  with  you,  beyond  the  rapids." 

Menard  merely  shook  his  head.  The  canoe 
was  soon  on  the  bank,  and  emptied  of  water. 
The  other  men  were  beginning  to  come  in  with 
soaked  bundles  and  dripping  muskets.  Each 
bale  was  opened,  and  the  contents  spread  out  to 
dry,  while  Guerin  was  set  to  work  at  drying  the 
muskets  with  a  cloth.  Perrot  and  Danton 
built  a  rough  shelter  for  the  maid,  enclosing  a 
small  fire,  and  gave  her  some  dry  blankets. 
Then  each  man  dried  himself  as  best  he  could. 

This  accident  threw  Danton  into  a  fit  of 
gloominess  from  which  nothing  seemed  to 
arouse  him.  He  was  careless  of  his  duty,  and 
equally  careless  to  the  reprimands  that  followed. 
This  went  on  for  two  days,  during  which  the 
maid  seemed  at  one  moment  to  avoid  him,  and 
at  another  to  watch  for  his  coming.  In  the 
evening  of  the  second  day  following,  the  party 
camped  at  Pointe  a  Baudet,  on  Lake  St.  Francis. 
The  supper  was  eaten  in  a  silence  more  oppres- 
sive than  usual,  for  neither  Menard  nor  Father 
Claude  could  overcome  the  influence  of  Dan- 
ton's  heavy  face  and  the  maid's  troubled  eyes. 
After  the  supper  the  two  strolled  away,  and  sat 


DANTON   BREAKS   OUT.  99 

just  out  of  earshot  on  a  mossy  knoll.  For  hours 
they  talked  there,  their  voices  low,  save  once 
or  twice  when  Danton's  rose.  They  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  count  of  time,  all  heed  of  appear- 
ances. Menard  and  the  priest  made  an  effort 
at  first  to  appear  unobservant,  but  later,  seeing 
that  their  movements  were  beyond  the  sight  of 
those  unheeding  eyes,  they  took  to  watching 
and  speculating  on  the  course  of  the  conversa- 
tion. The  night  came  on,  and  the  dark  closed 
over  them.  Still  the  murmur  of  those  low  voices 
floated  across  the  camp. 

Father  Claude,  with  a  troubled  mind,  went 
down  to  the  water,  and  walked  slowly  up  and 
down.  Menard  saw  to  the  final  preparations  for 
the  night,  and  posted  the  first  sentry.  Then 
he  joined  the  priest. 

"Father?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  think  it  is  time  to  speak." 

"  I  fear  it  is,  M'sieu." 

"  I  must  leave  it  in  your  hands." 

"  Shall  I  go  now  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Without  further  words,  Father  Claude  walked 
up  the  bank,  crackling  through  the  bushes. 
From  this  spot  the  voices  were  inaudible,  and 


ioo  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

for  a  few  moments  there  was  no  sound.  Then 
Menard  could  hear  some  one  moving  heavily 
through  the  undergrowth,  going  farther  and 
farther  into  the  stillness,  and  he  knew  that  it 
was  Danton.  He  sat  on  the  bank  with  his  back 
against  a  tree,  and  waited  for  a  long  hour.  At 
last  he  dropped  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  Father  Claude.  The 
priest  dropped  to  the  ground  beside  him.  His 
training  had  given  Menard  the  faculty  of  awak- 
ing instantly  into  full  grasp  of  a  situation. 

"  Well,"  he  said.     "  Where  is  the  maid  ?  " 

"  She  has  gone  to  her  couch,  but  not  to  sleep, 
I  fear.  It  has  come,  M'sieu." 

"  What  has  come  ?  " 

"  Danton  has  lost  his  senses.  He  asks  her 
to  marry  him,  to  flee  with  him.  It  is  a  difficult 
case.  She  has  had  no  such  experience  before, 
and  knows  not  how  to  receive  him.  She  seems 
to  have  no  love  for  him,  beyond  the  pleasure 
his  flattery  has  given  her.  She  believes  all  he 
says.  One  thing  I  know,  aside  from  all  ques- 
tions of  expediency,  of  care  for  our  trust,  this 
must  not  go  on." 

"  Not  for  the  present,  at  least.  She  may  do 
what  she  will,  once  we  have  taken  her  safely  to 
Frontenac." 


DANTON    BREAKS   OUT.  101 

"  No,  M'sieu ;  not  even  then.  We  must  stop 
it  at  once." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Menard;  "  so  far  as  we 
are  concerned,  we  have  no  choice.  You  need 
not  bother  longer  to-night.  I  will  wait  for  the 
boy.  I  am  sorry  for  him." 

"  I  should  have  more  pity,  if  I  knew  less  of 
his  past." 

"  Tush,  Father !  He  is  not  a  bad  fellow,  as 
they  go.  To  be  sure  he  does  not  rise  any  too 
well  to  new  responsibilities,  but  he  will  grow 
into  it.  It  is  better  an  honest  infatuation  with 
the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  than  a  dishonest 
one  with  an  Indian  maid.  And  you  know  our 
officers,  Father.  God  knows,  they  are  all  bad 
enough;  and  yet  they  are  loyal  fellows." 

"  Ah,  M'sieu,  I  fear  you  will  be  too  lenient 
with  him.  Believe  me,  we  have  not  a  minute  to 
waste  in  stopping  the  affair." 

"  Have  no  fear,  Father.     Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 

Menard  lay  on  the  bank,  gazing  at  the  spark- 
ling water,  and  listening  to  the  slow  step  of 
the  sentry  and  to  the  deeper  sounds  of  the  for- 
est. Another  hour  crept  by,  and  still  Danton 
had  not  returned.  Menard  walked  about  the 
camp  to  make  sure  that  he  was  not  already 


io*  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

rolled  in  his  blanket ;  then  he  went  to  the  sen- 
try, who  was  leaning  against  a  tree  a  few  rods 
away. 

"Colin,"  he  said,  "have  you  seen  Lieuten- 
ant Danton  ? " 

"Yes,  M'sieu.  He  is  up  there."  Colin 
pointed  through  the  trees  that  fringed  the 
river.  "  I  heard  a  noise  some  time  ago,  and 
went  up  to  see.  He  is  lying  under  a  beech 
tree,  if  he  has  not  moved,  —  and  I  should 
have  heard  him  if  he  had.  It  may  be  that  he 
is  asleep." 

Menard  nodded,  and  walked  slowly  along 
the  bank,  bending  aside  the  briers  that  caught 
at  his  clothes  and  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    FIGHT    AT    LA    GALLETTE. 


was  lying  on  the  ground,  but  he 
was  not  asleep.  He  looked  up,  at  the  sound 
of  Menard's  footsteps,  and  then,  recognizing 
him,  lowered  his  eyes  again.  The  Captain  hesi- 
tated, standing  over  the  prostrate  figure. 

"  Danton,"  he  said  finally,  "  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  the  truth." 

The  boy  made  no  reply,  and  Menard,  after 
waiting  for  a  moment,  sat  upon  a  log. 

"  I  have  decided  to  do  rather  an  unusual 
thing,  Danton,"  he  said  slowly,  "  in  offering  to 
talk  it  over  with  you  as  a  friend,  and  not  as  an 
officer.  In  one  thing  you  must  understand  me  : 
Mademoiselle  St.  Denis  has  been  intrusted  to 
my  care,  and  until  she  has  safely  reached  those 
who  have  a  right  to  share  the  direction  of  her 
actions,  I  can  allow  nothing  of  this  sort  to  go 
on.  You  must  understand  that.  If  you  will 
talk  with  me  frankly,  and  try  to  control  your- 

103 


104  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

self  for  the  present,  it  may  be  that  I  can  be  of 
service  to  you  later  on." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Finally,  Danton 
spoke,  without  raising  his  head. 

"  Is  there  need  of  this,  M'sieu  ?  Is  it  not 
enough  that  she  —  that  Mademoiselle  dismisses 
me?" 

"Oh,"  said  Menard,  "that  is  it?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  sure  of  yourself,  Danton?  sure 
that  you  have  not  made  a  mistake  ? " 

"  A  mistake  ? "  The  boy  looked  up  wildly. 
"  I  was  —  shall  I  tell  you,  M'sieu  ?  —  I  left  the 
camp  to-night  with  the  thought  that  I  should 
never  go  back." 

Menard  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  What  did  you  plan  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know, —  I  don't  know  now.  Back 
to  Montreal,  perhaps  to  the  Iroquois.  I  don't 
care  where." 

"  You  did  not  bring  your  musket.  It  would 
hardly  be  safe." 

"  Safe !  "  There  was  weary  contempt  in  the 
boy's  voice.  He  sat  up,  and  made  an  effort  to 
steady  himself,  leaning  back  upon  his  hands. 
"  I  should  not  say  this.  It  was  what  I  thought 
at  first.  I  am  past  it  now ;  I  can  think  better. 


THE   FIGHT   AT   LA    GALLETTE.  105 

It  was  only  your  coming,  —  when  I  first  saw 
you,  it  came  rushing  back,  and  I  wanted  to  — 
oh,  what  is  the  use  ?  You  do  not  know.  You 
cannot  understand." 

"  And  now  ?  " 

"  Now,  Captain,  I  ask  for  a  release.  Let  me 
go  back  to  Montreal." 

"  How  would  you  go  ?     You  have  no  canoe." 

"  I  will  walk." 

Menard  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  it  is  too  late.  In 
the  first  place,  you  would  never  reach  the  city. 
There  are  scouting  bands  of  Iroquois  all  along' 
the  river." 

"  So  much  the  better,  M'sieu,  so  —  " 

"  Wait.  That  is  only  one  reason.  I  cannot 
spare  you.  I  have  realized  within  the  last  day 
that  I  should  have  brought  more  men.  The 
Iroquois  know  of  our  campaign ;  they  are 
watching  us.  A  small  party  like  this  is  to 
their  liking.  I  will  tell  you,  Danton,  we  may 
have  a  close  rub  before  we  get  to  Frontenac. 
I  wish  I  could  help  you,  but  I  cannot.  What 
reason  could  I  give  for  sending  you  alone  down 
the  river  to  Montreal?  You  forget,  boy,  that 
we  are  not  on  our  own  pleasure ;  we  are  on  the 
King's  errand.  For  you  to  go  now  would  be 


io6  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

to  take  away  one  of  our  six  fighting  men, — 
to  imperil  Mademoiselle.  And  that,  I  think," 
he  looked  keenly  at  Danton,  "  is  not  what  you 
would  wish  to  do." 

The  boy's  face  was  by  turns  set  and  working. 
He  looked  at  Menard  as  if  to  speak,  but  got 
nothing  out.  At  last  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
paced  back  and  forth  between  the  trees. 

"  What  can  I  do  ? "  he  said  half  to  himself. 
"  I  can't  stay !  I  can't  see  her  every  day,  and 
hear  her  voice,  and  sit  with  her  at  every  meal. 
Why  do  you  call  yourself  my  friend,  Menard  ? 
Why  don't  you  help?  Why  don't  you  say 
something  —  ?  " 

"  There  are  some  things,  Danton,  that  a  man 
must  fight  out  alone." 

Danton  turned  away,  and  stood  looking  over 
the  river.  Menard  sat  on  the  log  and  waited. 
The  moments  slipped  by,  and  still  they  said 
nothing.  They  could  hear  the  stirring  of  Colin, 
back  at  the  camp,  and  the  rustle  of  the  low  night 
breeze.  They  could  almost  hear  the  great  silent 
rush  of  the  river. 

"  Danton." 

The  boy  half  turned  his  head. 

"  You  will  stay  here  and  play  the  man.  You 
will  go  on  with  your  duties ;  though,  if  the  old 


THE    FIGHT   AT   LA   GALLETTE.  107 

arrangement  be  too  hard,  I  will  be  your  master 
in  the  Iroquois  study,  leaving  Mademoiselle  to 
Father  Claude.  And  now  you  must  return  to 
the  camp  and  get  what  sleep  you  can.  Heaven 
knows  we  may  have  little  enough  between  here 
and  Frontenac.  Come." 

He  got  up,  and  walked  to  the  camp,  without 
looking  around.  Danton  lingered  until  the 
Captain's  tall  figure  was  blending  with  the 
shadows  of  the  forest,  then  he  went  after. 

During  the  following  day  they  got  as  far  as 
the  group  of  islands  at  the  head  of  Lake  St. 
Francis.  Wherever  possible  Menard  was  now 
selecting  islands  or  narrow  points  for  the  camp, 
where,  in  case  of  a  night  attack,  defence  would 
be  a  simple  problem  for  his  few  men.  Also, 
each  night,  he  had  the  men  spread  a  circle  of 
cut  boughs  around  the  camp  at  a  little  distance, 
so  that  none  could  approach  without  some  slight 
noise.  Another  night  saw  the  party  at  the  foot 
of  Petit  Chesneaux,  just  above  Pointe  Ma- 
ligne. 

While  Perrot  was  preparing  the  supper,  and 
Danton,  with  the  voyageurs,  was  unpacking  the 
bales,  Menard  took  his  musket  and  strode  off 
into  the  forest.  There  was  seldom  a  morning 
now  that  the  maid  did  not  have  for  her  break- 


io8 


THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 


NOTE.  — By  this  picture-writing 
the  Long  Arrow  (of  the  clan  of  the 
Beaver)  tells  the  Beaver  (of  the 
same  clan)  that  he  has  taken  up 
the  hatchet  against  the  party  in  the 
canoe,  and  he  asks  the  Beaver  to 
assist  him.  The  parallel  zigzag 
lines  under  the  long  arrow  tell 
that  he  is  travelling  by  the  river, 
and  the  two  straight  lines  under 
these  that  he  has  two  warriors  with 
him.  The  attack  is  to  be  made 
in  either  three  or  four  sleeps,  or 
days,  as  indicated  by  the  three 
finished  huts  and  one  unfinished. 

The  Beaver  has  seen  this  sign, 
as  shown  by  his  signature  at  the 
bottom.  The  seventeen  slanting 
lines  under  the  foot  mean  that  he 
has  seventeen  warriors  and  they 
are  travelling  on  foot,  southward, 
as  shown  by  the  fact  that  the  lines 
slope  toward  the  sun. 

That  the  figures  in  the  canoe 
are  French  is  shown  by  their  hats. 
The  priest  has  no  paddle;  the 
maid  is  represented  with  long  hair. 


fast  a  morsel  of  game 
which  the  Captain's  mus- 
ket had  brought  down. 

In  half  an  hour  he  re- 
turned, and  sought  Fa- 
ther Claude  ;  and  after  a 
few  low  words  the  two 
set  off.  Menard  led  the 
way  through  thicket  and 
timber  growth,  over  a 
low  hill,  and  down  into  a 
hollow,  where  a  well-de- 
fined Indian  trail  crossed 
a  brook.  Here  was  a 
large  sugar  maple  tree 
standing  in  a  narrow 
opening  in  the  thicket. 
Menard  struck  a  light, 
and  held  up  a  torch  so 
that  the  priest  could 
make  out  a  blaze-mark 
on  the  tree. 

"See,"  said  Menard. 
"  It  is  on  the  old  trail. 
I  saw  it  by  the  merest 
chance." 


Father  Claude  bent   forward,  with   his  eyes 


THE    FIGHT   AT   LA   GALLETTE.  109 

close  to  the  inscription  that  had  been  painted 
on  the  white  inner  bark,  with  charcoal  and 
bear's  grease. 

"  Can  you  read  it  ?  "  asked  Menard,  holding 
the  torch  high. 

The  priest  nodded.  Both  of  these  men  knew 
the  Indian  writing  nearly  as  well  as  their  own 
French. 

"  He  does  not  know  of  the  two  men  you  got 
at  Montreal,  M'sieu.  He  tells  of  only  six  in 
our  canoe." 

"  No  ?  But  that  matters  little.  The  Beaver 
has  hurried  after  him  with  nearly  a  score. 
They  can  give  us  trouble  enough.  What  do 
you  make  of  the  huts  ?  Do  they  mean  three 
days  or  four  ?  " 

"  It  looks  to  me,"  said  the  priest  slowly, 
"that  he  was  interrupted  in  drawing  the 
fourth." 

"Well,"  —  Menard  threw  his  torch  into  the 
brook,  and  turned  away  into  the  dusk  of  the 
thicket,  —  "we  know  enough.  The  fight  will 
be  somewhere  near  the  head  of  the  rapids. 
Perhaps  they  will  wait  until  we  get  on  into  the 
islands." 

"  And  meantime,"  said  the  priest,  as  they 
crackled  through  the  undergrowth,  "we  shall 


no  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

say  nothing  of  this  to  Lieutenant  Danton  or 
the  maid  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  Menard  replied. 

In  three  days  more  they  had  passed  Rapide 
Flat,  after  toiling  laboriously  by  the  Long  Sault. 
They  were  a  sober  enough  party  now,  oppressed 
with  Danton's  dogged  attention  to  duty  and 
with  the  maid's  listless  manner. 

They  were  passing  a  small  island  the  next 
morning,  when  Perrot  gave  a  shout  and  stopped 
paddling. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Menard,  sharply. 

Perrot  pointed  across  a  spit  of  land.  In  the 
other  channel  they  could  see  a  bateau  just 
disappearing  behind  a  clump  of  trees.  It  was 
headed  down-stream.  Menard  swung  the  canoe 
about,  and  they  skirted  the  foot  of  the  island. 
Instead  of  a  single  bateau  there  were  some 
half  dozen,  drifting  light  down  the  river,  with 
a  score  of  coureurs  de  bois  and  voyageurs 
under  the  command  of  a  bronzed  lieutenant, 
Du  Peron,  a  sergeant,  and  a  corporal.  The 
lieutenant  recognized  Menard,  and  both  parties 
landed  while  the  two  officers  exchanged  news. 

"  Can  you  spare  me  a  few  men  ? "  Menard 
asked,  when  they  had  drawn  apart  from  the 
others. 


THE   FIGHT  AT   LA   GALLETTE.  in 

The  lieutenant's  eye  roamed  over  the  group 
on  the  beach,  where  the  men  of  both  parties 
were  mingling. 

"  How  many  do  you  want  ?  I'm  running 
shorthanded.  We  have  all  we  can  manage 
with  these  bateaux." 

"  There's  a  war  party  of  twenty  on  my  trail," 
said  Menard.  "  If  I  had  my  own  men  with 
me  I  should  feel  safe,  but  I  have  my  doubts 
about  these  fellows.  I  haven't  room  for  more 
than  two." 

"What's  the  trouble?  —  that  La  Grange 
affair?" 

Menard  nodded. 

"  I  heard  that  they  had  a  price  on  your  head. 
There's  been  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  it  at 
Frontenac.  A  converted  Mohawk  has  been 
scouting  for  us,  and  he  says  that  the  Ononda- 
gas  blame  you  for  that  whole  galley  business." 

"  I  know,"  said  Menard,  grimly.  "  You  could 
hardly  expect  them  to  get  the  truth  of  it." 

"  It  was  bad  work,  Menard,  bad  work.  The 
worst  thing  La  Grange  did  was  to  butcher 
the  women  and  children.  He  was  drunk  at 
the  time,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  over  before 
d'Orvilliers  got  wind  of  it.  Do  you  know  who 
is  leading  this  war  party  ?  " 


ii2  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  The  Long  Arrow." 

"  Oh,  yes.  A  big  fellow,  with  a  rather  notice- 
able wampum  collar.  He  came  to  Frontenac  as 
a  Mission  Indian,  but  got  away  before  we  sus- 
pected anything.  Our  scout  told  me  that  his 
son  was  in  the  party  that  was  taken  to  the  gal- 
leys. He's  been  scouting  along  the  river  ever 
since.  Likely  as  not  he  followed  you  down  to 
Quebec.  How  many  men  have  you  now  ?  " 

"  Five,  and  Father  Claude." 

"  He  could  shoot  at  a  pinch,  I  suppose.  I'll 
let  you  have  the  best  two  I  have,  but  — " 
Du  Peron  shrugged  his  shoulders  — "  you 
know  the  sort  that  are  assigned  for  this  trans- 
port work.  They're  a  bad  lot  at  best.  But  they 
can  shoot,  and  they  hate  the  Iroquois,  so  you're 
all  right  if  you  can  keep  them  sober.  That 
will  make  nine,  with  yourself,  —  it  should  be 
enough." 

"  It  will  be  enough.  How  is  the  transport 
moving  ? " 

"Splendidly.  Whatever  we  may  say  about 
the  new  Governor,  our  Intendant  knows  his 
business.  I  judge  from  the  way  he  is  stocking 
up  Frontenac,  that  we  are  to  use  it  as  the  base 
for  a  big  campaign." 

"  I  suppose  so.     You  will  report,  will  you,  at 


THE    FIGHT  AT   LA   GALLETTE.  113 

Montreal,  that  we  were  safe  at  Rapide  Flat? 
And  if  you  find  a  coureur  going  down  to 
Quebec,  I  wish  you  would  send  word  to  Pro- 
vost that  Mademoiselle  St.  Denis  is  well  and 
in  good  spirits." 

The  lieutenant  looked  curiously  at  the  maid, 
who  was  walking  with  Father  Claude  near  the 
canoe.  Then  the  two  officers  shook  hands,  and 
in  a  few  moments  were  going  their  ways,  Me- 
nard  with  two  villainous  voyageurs  added  to  his 
crew.  That  afternoon  he  passed  the  last  rapid, 
and  beached  the  canoe  at  La  Gallette,  thankful 
that  nothing  intervened  between  them  and 
Fort  Frontenac  but  a  reach  of  still  water  and 
the  twining  channels  of  the  Thousand  Islands, 
where  it  would  call  for  the  sharpest  eyes  ever 
set  in  an  Iroquois  head  to  follow  his  movements. 

They  ate  an  early  supper,  and  immediately 
afterward  Father  Claude  slipped  away.  The 
maid  looked  after  him  a  little  wistfully,  then 
she  wandered  to  the  bank,  and  found  a  mossy 
seat  where  she  could  watch  the  long  rapid,  with 
its  driving,  foaming  current  that  dashed  over 
the  ledges  and  leaped  madly  around  the  jagged 
rocks.  Menard  set  his  men  at  work  preparing 
the  camp  against  attack.  When  this  was  well 
under  way  he  called  Danton,  who  was  lying  by 


ii4  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

the  fire,  and  spent  an  hour  with  him  convers- 
ing in  Iroquois.  By  that  time  the  twilight  was 
creeping  down  the  river.  Menard  left  the  boy 
to  form  a  speech  in  accord  with  Iroquois  tradi- 
tion, and  went  on  a  tour  of  inspection  about 
the  camp.  The  new  men  had  swung  thoroughly 
into  the  spirit  of  their  work ;  one  of  them  was 
already  on  guard  a  short  way  back  in  the 
woods.  The  other  men  were  grouped  in  a 
cleared  place,  telling  stories  and  singing. 

Father  Claude  came  hurriedly  toward  the 
fire,  looking  for  Menard.  His  eyes  glowed 
with  enthusiasm. 

"  M'sieu,"  he  said,  in  an  eager  voice,  "  come. 
I  have  found  it." 

"What?" 

"  It  has  come  to  me,  —  about  the  canoe." 

Menard  looked  puzzled,  but  the  priest  caught 
his  arm,  and  led  him  away. 

"  It  came  while  we  ate  supper.  The  whole 
truth,  the  secret  of  the  allegory,  flashed  upon 
me.  I  have  worked  hard,  and  now  it  is  done. 
Instead  of  leaving  out  the  canoe,  I  have  put  it 
back,  and  have  placed  in  it  six  warriors,  three 
paddling  toward  the  chapel,  and  three  away 
from  it.  Over  them  hovers  an  angel,  —  a  mere 
suggestion,  a  faint,  shining  face,  a  diaphanous 


THE   FIGHT  AT   LA  GALLETTE.  115 

form,  and  outspread  hands.  Thus  we  symbolize 
the  conflict  in  the  savage  mind  at  the  first  en- 
trance of  the  Holy  Word  into  their  lives,  with 
the  blessed  assurance  over  all  that  the  Faith 
must  triumph  in  the  end." 

At  the  last  words,  he  stopped  and  drew 
Menard  around  to  face  the  portrait  of  the 
Lily  of  the  Onondagas,  which  was  leaning 
against  a  stump. 

"  Is  it  too  dark,  M'sieu  ?  See,  I  will  bring  it 
closer."  He  lifted  the  picture,  and  held  it  close 
to  Menard's  eyes.  He  was  trembling  with  the 
excitement  of  his  inspiration. 

The  Captain  stepped  back. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  Father,  where  you 
have  had  this  picture." 

"It  was  in  my  bundle.  I  have"  —  for  the 
first  time  he  saw  the  sternness  in  Menard's 
face,  and  his  voice  faltered. 

"  You  did  not  leave  it  at  Montreal  ?  " 

Father  Claude  slowly  lowered  the  canvas  to 
the  ground.  The  light  had  gone  out  of  his 
eyes,  and  his  face  was  white.  Then  suddenly 
his  thin  form  straightened.  "  I  had  forgotten. 
It  was  M'sieu's  order.  See,"  —  he  suddenly 
lifted  the  picture  over  his  head  and  whirled  to 
the  stump,  —  "  it  shall  go  no  farther.  We  will 


n6  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

leave  it  here  for  the  wolves  and  the  crows  and 
the  pagan  redmen." 

He  dashed  it  down  with  all  his  strength,  but 
Menard  sprang  forward,  and  caught  it  on  his 
outstretched  arm.  "  No,  Father,"  he  said  ;  "  we 
will  take  it  with  us." 

The  priest  smiled  wearily,  and  lowered  the 
picture  to  the  ground ;  but  when  Menard  said, 
"  You  have  broken  it,"  he  raised  it  hastily,  and 
examined  it.  One  corner  of  the  wooden  frame 
was  loosened,  but  the  canvas  was  not  injured. 

"  I  can  mend  it,"  he  said. 

Then  they  walked  to  the  camp  together, 
without  talking;  and  Menard  helped  him  re- 
pair the  frame,  and  pack  the  picture  carefully. 

"  How  is  it  that  it  was  not  ruined  in  the 
capsize  at  Coteau  des  Cedres  ? "  Menard  asked. 

"  It  was  preserved  by  a  miracle,  M'sieu.  This 
bundle  did  not  leave  the  canoe." 

The  voyageurs,  still  lounging  in  the  clearing, 
were  laughing  and  talking  noisily.  The  Cap- 
tain, after  he  had  prepared  the  maid's  couch, 
and  bade  her  good-night,  called  to  them  to  be 
quiet  For  a  time  the  noise  ceased,  but  a  little 
later,  as  he  was  spreading  his  blanket  on  the 
ground,  it  began  again,  and  one  of  the  trans- 
port men  sang  the  opening  strain  of  a  ribald 


THE   FIGHT   AT   LA   GALLETTE.  117 

song.  Menard  strode  over  to  the  group  so 
quickly  that  he  took  them  by  surprise.  Colin 
was  slipping  something  behind  him,  but  he 
could  not  escape  Menard's  eye.  In  a  moment 
he  was  sprawling  on  his  face,  and  a  brandy  flask 
was  brought  to  light.  Menard  dashed  it  against 
a  tree,  and  turned  to  the  frightened  men. 

"  Go  to  your  blankets,  every  man  of  you. 
There  are  Iroquois  on  this  river.  You  have 
already  made  enough  noise  to  draw  them  from 
half  a  league  away.  The  next  man  that  is 
caught  drinking  will  be  flogged."  He  thought 
of  the  maid  lying  under  her  frail  shelter,  for 
whose  life  he  was  responsible.  "  If  it  occurs 
twice,  he  will  be  shot.  Perrot,  I  want  you  to 
join  the  sentry.  From  now  on  we  shall  have 
two  men  on  guard  all  night.  See  that  there  is 
no  mistake  about  this.  At  the  slightest  noise, 
you  will  call  me." 

The  men  slunk  to  their  blankets,  and  soon 
the  camp  was  still. 

The  river  sang  as  it  rushed  down  its  zigzag 
channel  through  the  rocks,  —  a  song  that 
seemed  a  part  of  the  night,  and  yet  was  dis- 
tinct from  the  creeping,  rustling,  dropping,  all- 
pervading  life  and  stir  of  the  forest.  Every 
leaf,  every  twig  and  root,  every  lump  of  sod 


n8  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

and  rock-held  pool  of  stagnant  water,  had  its 
own  miniature  world,  where  living  things  were 
fighting  the  battle  of  life.  In  the  far  distance, 
perhaps,  an  owl  hooted ;  or  near  at  hand,  a  flying 
squirrel  alighted  on  a  bending  elm-twig.  Deer 
and  moose  followed  their  beaten  tracks  to  the 
streams  that  had  been  theirs  before  ever  French- 
man pierced  the  forest ;  beaver  dove  into  their 
huts  above  the  dams  their  own  sharp  teeth  had 
made ;  moles  nosed  under  the  rich  soil,  and  left 
a  winding  track  behind ;  frogs  croaked  and 
bellowed  from  some  backset  of  the  river,  —  and 
all  blended,  not,  perhaps,  so  much  into  a  sound, 
as  into  a  sense  of  movement,  —  an  even  mur- 
mur in  a  low  key,  to  which  the  lighter  note  of 
the  water  was  apart  and  distinct. 

To  a  man  trained  as  Menard  had  been,  this 
was  companionship.  He  was  never  alone  in 
the  forest,  never  without  his  millions  of  friends, 
who,  though  they  seldom  came  into  his  thoughts, 
were  yet  a  part  of  him,  of  his  sense  of  life  and 
strength.  And  through  all  these  noises,  even 
to  the  roar  of  Niagara  itself,  he  could  sleep 
like  a  child,  when  the  slightest  sound  of  a 
moccasined  foot  on  a  dry  leaf  would  have 
aroused  him  at  the  instant  to  full  activity. 
To-night  he  lay  awake  for  a.  long  time.  With 


THE   FIGHT  AT   LA   GALLETTE.  119 

every  day  that  he  drew  nearer  the  frontier 
came  graver  doubts  of  the  feasibility  of  the 
plan  which  had  been  intrusted  to  him.  The 
wretched  business  of  La  Grange's  treachery 
and  the  stocking  of  the  King's  galleys  had 
probably  alienated  the  Onondagas  for  all  time. 
Their  presence  on  the  St.  Lawrence  pointed  to 
this.  He  felt  safe  enough,  personally,  for  the 
very  imprudence  of  the  Governor's  campaign, 
which  had  made  it  known  so  early  to  all  the 
Iroquois,  was  an  element  in  his  favour.  The 
Iroquois,  unlike  many  of  the  roaming  western 
tribes,  had  their  settled  villages,  with  lodges 
and  fields  of  grain  to  defend  from  invasion. 
One  secret  of  the  campaign  had  been  well 
kept;  no  one  save  the  Governor's  staff  and 
Menard  knew  that  the  blow  was  to  fall  on  the 
Senecas  alone.  And  Menard  was  certain 
enough  in  his  knowledge  of  Iroquois  character 
to  believe  that  each  tribe,  from  the  Mohawks 
on  the  east  to  the  Senecas  on  the  west,  would 
call  in  its  warriors,  and  concentrate  to  defend 
its  villages.  Therefore  there  could  be  no  strong 
force  on  the  St.  Lawrence,  where  the  French 
could  so  easily  cut  it  off.  As  for  the  Long 
Arrow  and  his  band,  eight  good  righting  men 
and  a  stout-hearted  priest  could  attend  to  them, 


i2o  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

No,  the  danger  would  begin  after  the  maid 
was  safe  at  Frontenac,  and  he  and  Danton  and 
Father  Claude  must  set  out  to  win  the  confi- 
dence of  the  Onondagas.  The  Oneidas  and 
Mohawks  must  not  be  slighted  ;  but  the  Onon- 
dagas and  Cayugas,  being  the  nearest  to  the 
Senecas,and  between  them  and  the  other  nations, 
would  likely  prove  to  be  the  key  to  the  situation. 

The  night  was  black  when  he  awoke. 
Clouds  had  spread  over  the  sky,  hiding  all  but 
a  strip  in  the  west  where  a  low  line  of  stars 
peeped  out.  This  strip  was  widening  rapidly 
as  the  night  breeze  carried  the  clouds  eastward. 
At  a  little  distance  some  of  the  men  were  whis- 
pering together  and  laughing  softly.  A  hand 
was  feeling  his  arm,  and  a  voice  whispered,  — 

"  Quick,  M'sieu  ;  something  has  happened  !  " 

"  Is  that  you,  Colin  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Guerin  was  on  guard  with  me,  and 
he  fell.  I  thought  I  heard  an  arrow,  but  could 
not  be  sure.  I  looked  for  him  after  I  heard 
him  fall,  but  could  not  find  him  in  the  dark." 

Menard  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  his  musket, 
which  had  lain  at  his  side  every  night  since 
leaving  Montreal. 

"  Where  was  Guerin,  Colin  ?  " 

"Straight  back  from  the  river,  a  few  rods, 


THE   FIGHT  AT  LA   GALLETTE.  121 

He  had  spoken  but  a  moment  before.  It  must 
have  told  them  where  to  shoot." 

"  Call  the  men,  and  draw  them  close  in  a 
circle."  Menard  felt  his  way  toward  the  fire, 
where  a  few  red  embers,  showed  dimly,  and 
roused  Danton  with  a  light  touch  and  a  whis- 
pered caution  to  be  silent.  Already  he  could 
hear  the  low  stir  of  the  engages  as  they  slipped 
nearer  the  fire.  He  walked  slowly  toward  the 
river,  with  one  hand  stretched  out  in  front,  to 
find  the  canoe.  It  was  closer  than  he  sup- 
posed, and  he  stumbled  over  it,  knocking  one 
end  off  its  support.  The  maid  awoke  with  a 
gasp. 

"  Mademoiselle,  silence ! "  he  whispered, 
kneeling  beside  her.  "  I  fear  we  are  attacked. 
You  must  come  with  me."  He  had  to  say  it 
twice  before  she  could  fully  understand,  and 
just  then  an  arrow  sang  over  them,  and  struck 
a  tree  with  a  low  thut.  He  suddenly  rose  and 
shouted,  "  Together,  boys !  They  will  be  on 
us  in  a  moment.  Close  in  at  the  bank,  and 
save  your  powder.  Perrot,  come  here  and  help 
me  with  the  canoe." 

There  was  a  burst  of  yells  from  the  dark  in 
answer  to  his  call,  and  a  few  shots  flashed. 
Danton  was  rallying  the  men,  and  calling  to 


122  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

them  to  fall  back,  where  they  could  take  cover 
among  the  rocks  and  trees  of  the  bank. 

The  maid  was  silent,  but  she  reached  out 
her  hand,  and  Menard,  catching  her  wrist, 
helped  her  to  her  feet,  and  fairly  carried  her 
down  the  slope  of  the  bank,  laying  her  behind 
the  tangled  roots  of  a  great  oak.  Already  the 
sky  was  clearer,  and  the  trees  and  men  were 
beginning  to  take  dim  shape.  The  river  rushed 
by,  a  deeper  black  than  sky  and  woods,  with  a 
few  ghostly  bits  of  white  where  the  foam  of 
the  rapids  began. 

"  Stay  here,"  he  whispered.  "  Don't  move 
or  speak.  I  shall  not  be  far." 

She  clung  to  his  hand  in  a  dazed  manner, 
but  he  gently  drew  his  away,  and  left  her  crouch- 
ing on  the  ground. 

The  men  were  calling  to  one  another  as  they 
dodged  back  from  tree  to  tree  toward  the  river, 
shooting  only  when  a  flash  from  the  woods 
showed  the  position  of  an  Indian.  Some  of 
them  were  laughing,  and  as  Menard  reached 
the  canoe  Perrot  broke  into  a  jeering  song. 
It  was  clear  that  the  attacking  party  was 
not  strong.  Probably  they  had  not  taken  into 
account  the  double  guard,  relying  on  the  death 
of  the  sentry  to  clear  the  way  for  a  surprise. 


THE   FIGHT  AT   LA   GALLE1TE.  123 

"  Perrot !  "  called  the  Captain.  "  Why  don't 
you  come  here  ?  " 

The  song  stopped.  There  was  a  heavy  noise 
as  the  voyageur  came  plunging  through  the 
bushes,  drawing  a  shower  of  arrows  and  mus- 
ket balls. 

"  Careful,  Perrot,  careful." 

"  They  can't  hit  me,"  said  Perrot,  laughing. 
He  stumbled  against  the  Captain,  stepped  back, 
and  fell  over  the  canoe,  rolling  and  kicking. 
Menard  sprang  toward  him  and  jerked  him  up. 
He  smelled  strongly  of  brandy. 

Menard  swore  under  his  breath. 

"  Pick  up  your  musket.  Take  hold  of  that 
canoe,  — quick! " 

Perrot  was  frightened  by  his  stern  words, 
and  he  succeeded  in  holding  up  an  end  of  the 
canoe,  while  Menard  pushed  him  down  the 
slope  to  the  water's  edge.  They  rushed  back, 
and  in  a  few  trips  got  down  most  of  the  stores. 
By  this  time  Perrot  was  sobering  somewhat, 
and  with  the  Captain  he  took  his  place  in  the 
line.  The  men  were  shooting  more  frequently 
now,  and  by  their  loose  talk  showed  increasing 
recklessness.  Calling  to  Danton,  Menard  finally 
made  them  understand  his  order  to  fall  back. 
Before  they  reached  the  bank,  Colin  dropped, 


124  THE    ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

with  a  ball  through  the  head,  and  was  dragged 
back  by  Danton. 

They  dropped  behind  logs  and  trees  at  the 
top  of  the  slope.  It  began  to  look  as  if  the 
redmen  were  to  get  no  closer,  in  spite  of 
the  drunken  condition  of  all  but  one  or  two  of 
the  men.  Though  the  night  was  now  much 
brighter,  they  were  in  the  shadow,  and  neither 
the  Captain  nor  Danton  observed  that  the 
brandy  which  the  transport  men  had  supplied 
was  passing  steadily  from  hand  to  hand.  They 
could  not  know  that  the  boy  Guerin  lay  on 
his  back  amid  the  attacking  Onondagas,  an 
arrow  sticking  upright  in  his  breast,  one  hand 
lying  across  his  musket,  the  other  clasping  a 
flask. 

The  maid  had  not  moved.  She  could  be 
easily  seen  now  in  the  clearer  light,  and  Me- 
nard  went  to  her,  feeling  the  need  of  giving  her 
some  work  to  occupy  her  mind  during  the  strain 
of  the  fight. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  whispered. 

She  looked  up.  He  could  see  that  she  was 
shivering. 

"  I  must  ask  you  to  help  me.  We  must  get 
the  canoe  into  the  water.  They  will  soon  tire 
of  the  assault  and  withdraw;  then  it  will  be 


THE    FIGHT   AT    LA   GALLETTE.  125 

safe  to  take  to  the  canoe.  They  cannot  hurt 
you.  We  are  protected  by  the  bank." 

He  helped  her  to  rise,  and  she  bravely  threw 
her  weight  on  the  canoe,  which  Menard  could 
so  easily  have  lifted  alone,  and  stood  at  the 
edge  of  the  beach,  passing  him  the  bundles, 
which  he,  wading  out,  placed  aboard.  But 
suddenly  he  stopped,  with  an  exclamation,  peer- 
ing into  the  canoe. 

The  maid,  dreading  each  moment  some  new 
danger,  asked  in  a  dry  voice,  "  What  is  it, 
M'sieu  ? " 

For  reply  he  seized  the  bundles,  one  at  a 
time,  and  tossed  them  ashore,  hauling  the  canoe 
after,  and  running  his  hand  along  the  bark. 

The  maid  stepped  to  his  side.  There  was  a 
gaping  hole  in  the  side  of  the  canoe.  She 
drew  her  breath  in  quickly,  and  looked  up  at 
him. 

"  It  was  Perrot,"  he  muttered,  "  that  fool 
Perrot."  He  stood  looking  at  it,  as  if  in  doubt 
what  to  do.  Up  on  the  bank  the  men,  Danton 
and  Father  Claude  among  them,  were  popping 
away  at  the  rustling  bushes.  Suddenly  he 
turned  and  gazed  down  at  the  maid's  upturned 
face.  "  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  think 
there  is  danger,  but  whatever  happens  you 


126  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

must  keep  close  to  me,  or  to  Danton  and  Father 
Claude.  It  may  be  that  there  will  be  moments 
when  we  cannot  stop  and  explain  to  you  as  I 
am  doing  now,  but  you  must  trust  us,  and  be- 
lieve that  all  will  come  out  well.  The  other 
men  are  not  themselves  to-night  — " 

He  stopped.  It  was  odd  that  he  should  so 
talk  to  a  maid  while  his  men  were  fighting  for 
their  lives ;  but  the  Menard  who  had  the  safety 
of  this  slender  girl  in  his  hands  was  not  the 
Menard  of  a  hundred  battles  gone  by.  So  he 
lingered,  not  knowing  why,  save  that  he  hoped 
for  some  word  from  her  lips  of  confidence  in 
those  who  wished  to  protect  her.  And,  as  he 
waited,  she  smiled  with  trembling  lips,  and 
said :  — 

"  It  will  come  out  well,  M'sieu.  I  —  I  am 
not  afraid." 

Then  Menard  went  up  the  bank  with  a 
bound,  and  finding  one  man  already  in  a  stupor, 
and  another  struggling  for  a  flask,  which  Father 
Claude  was  trying  to  take  away  from  him,  he 
laid  about  him  with  his  hard  fists,  and  shortly 
had  the  drunkards  as  near  to  their  senses  as 
they  were  destined  to  be  during  the  short  space 
they  had  yet  to  live. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

A    COMPLIMENT    FOR    MENARD. 


/^OLIN  and  Guerin  were  dead,  and  one  of 
>—  '  the  transport  men  lay  in  a  drunken  sleep, 
so  that  including  Menard,  Danton,  and  Father 
Claude  there  were  six  men  in  the  little  half 
circle  that  clung  to  the  edge  of  the  bank,  shoot- 
ing into  the  brush  wherever  a  twig  stirred  or 
a  musket  flashed.  "  There  are  not  many  of 
them,"  said  Menard  to  Danton,  as  they  lay 
on  their  sides  reloading.  He  listened  to  the 
whoops  and  barks  in  an  interval  between  shots. 
"  Not  a  score,  all  told." 

"  Will  they  come  closer  ?  " 

"  No.  You  won't  catch  an  Iroquois  risking 
his  neck  in  an  assault.  They'll  try  to  pick  us 
off  ;  but  if  we  continue  as  strong  as  we  are  now, 
they  are  likely  to  draw  off  and  try  some  other 
devilment,  or  wait  for  a  better  chance." 

Danton  crept  back  to  his  log  for  another 
shot.  Now  that  the  sky  was  nearly  free  of 

127 


i28  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

clouds,  and  the  river  was  sparkling  in  the  star- 
light, the  Frenchmen  could  not  raise  their  heads 
to  shoot  without  exposing  a  dim  silhouette  to 
the  aim  of  an  Indian  musket.  Father  Claude, 
who  was  loading  and  firing  a  long  arquebuse  a 
croc,  had  risen  above  this  difficulty  by  heaping 
a  pile  of  stones.  Kneeling  on  the  slope,  a  pace 
below  the  others,  and  resting  the  crutch  of  his 
piece  in  a  hollow  close  to  the  stones,  he  could 
shoot  through  a  crevice  with  little  chance  of 
harm,  beyond  a  bruised  shoulder. 

The  maid  came  timidly  up  the  bank,  and 
touched  Menard's  arm. 

"  What  is  it,  Mademoiselle  ?  You  must  not 
come  here.  It  is  not  safe." 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  M'sieu.  If  I  could 
have  your  knife  —  for  one  moment  —  " 

"  What  do  you  want  of  a  knife,  child  ?  It  is 
best  that  you  —  "  There  was  a  fusillade  from 
the  brush,  and  his  voice  was  lost  in  the  uproar. 
"  You  must  wait  below,  on  the  beach.  They 
cannot  get  to  you." 

"  It  is  the  canoe,  M'sieu.  The  cloth  about 
the  bales  is  stout,  —  I  can  sew  it  over  the  hole." 

Menard  looked  at  her  as  she  crouched  by  his 
side ;  her  hair  fallen  about  her  face  and  shoul- 
ders; her  hands,  grimy  with  the  clay  of  the 


A   COMPLIMENT   FOR   MENARD.  129 

bank,  clinging  to  a  wandering  root.  She  was 
still  trembling  with  excitement,  but  her  eyes 
were  bright  and  eager.  Without  a  word  he 
drew  his  knife  from  its  sheath,  and  held  it  out. 
She  took  it,  and  was  down  the  slope  with  a 
light  spring,  while  the  Captain  poked  the  muz- 
zle of  his  musket  through  the  leaves.  As  he 
drew  it  back,  after  firing,  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Danton's  face,  turned  toward  him  with  a 
curious  expression.  The  boy  laughed  nervously, 
and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  blackened  fore- 
head. "  They  don't  give  us  much  rest,  Captain, 
do  they?"  Menard's  reply  was  jerked  out 
with  the  strokes  of  his  ramrod :  "  They  will 
—  before  long  —  and  we  can  —  take  to  the 
canoe.  We're  letting  them  have  all  they  want." 
He  peered  through  the  leaves,  and  fired  quickly. 
A  long  shriek  came  from  the  darkness.  Me- 
nard  laughed.  "  There's  one  more  gone, 
Danton." 

The  fight  went  on  slowly,  wretchedly,  shot 
for  shot,  Danton  himself  dragging  up  a  bale  of 
ammunition  and  serving  it  to  the  men.  The 
maid,  unaided,  had  overturned  the  canoe  where 
it  lay,  and  with  quickened  breath  was  pressing 
her  needle  through  the  tough  bark.  Danton 
lost  the  flint  from  his  musket,  and  crept  down 


1 3o  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

the  bank  to  set  a  new  one.  Suddenly  he  ex- 
claimed, "  There  goes  Perrot !  " 

The  old  voyageur  had,  in  a  fit  of  reckless- 
ness, raised  his  head  for  a  long  look  about  the 
woods.  Now  he  was  rolling  slowly  down  the 
slope  toward  the  canoe  and  the  maid,  clutching 
weakly  at  roots  and  bushes  as  he  passed.  There 
was  a  dark  spot  on  his  forehead.  Menard 
sprang  after,  and  felt  of  his  wrists;  the  pulse 
was  fluttering  out.  He  looked  up,  to  see  the 
maid  dipping  up  water  with  her  hollowed  hands, 
and  waved  her  back. 

"  It  is  no  use,  Mademoiselle.  Is  the  canoe 
ready  ?  We  may  need  it  soon." 

She  stood  motionless,  slowly  shaking  her 
head,  and  letting  the  water  spill  from  her  hands 
a  drop  at  a  time. 

"  Go  back  there.  Do  what  you  can  with  it." 
He  hurried  up  the  bank  and  fell  into  his  place. 

"Do  you  see  what  they  are  doing?"  asked 
Danton. 

"  Playing  the  devil.     Anything  else  ? " 

The  lieutenant  pointed  to  an  arrow  that 
was  sticking  in  a  tree  beside  him,  slanting 
downward.  "  They  are  climbing  trees.  Listen. 
You  can  hear  them  talking,  and  calling  down. 
I've  fired,  but  I  don't  get  them." 


A   COMPLIMENT   FOR   MENARD.  131 

Menard  listened  closely,  and  shot  for  the 
sound,  but  with  no  result 

"We've  got  to  stop  this,  Danton.  I  don't 
understand  it.  It  isn't  like  the  Iroquois  to 
keep  at  it  after  a  repulse.  Tell  Father  Claude ; 
he  is  shooting  too  low."  Menard  glanced  along 
the  line  at  his  men.  The  drunken  transport 
man  lay  silent  at  his  post ;  beyond  him  were 
his  mate  and  one  of  the  Montreal  men,  both  of 
them  reckless  and  frightened  by  turns,  shoot- 
ing aimlessly  into  the  dark.  The  arrows  were 
rattling  down  about  them  now.  One  grazed 
Father  Claude's  back  as  he  stooped  to  take 
aim,  and  straightened  him  up  with  a  jerk.  A 
moment  later  a  bullet  sang  close  past  Menard's 
head.  He  looked  for  the  maid ;  she  was  sitting 
by  the  canoe,  sewing,  giving  no  heed  to  the 
arrows. 

The  Montreal  man  groaned  softly,  and  flat- 
tened out,  with  an  arrow  slanting  into  the  small 
of  his  back ;  which  so  unmanned  the  only  other 
conscious  engage  that  he  sank  by  him,  sobbing, 
and  trying  to  pull  out  the  arrow  with  his  hands. 
Menard  sprang  up. 

"  My  God,  Danton  !  Father  Claude !  This 
is  massacre.  Run  for  the  canoe.  My  turn, 
eh  ? " 


1 32  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Danton.  "Did  they 
get  you  ? " 

For  reply,  Menard  tore  an  arrow  from  the 
flesh  of  his  forearm  and  dashed  down  the  bank, 
musket  in  hand.  The  maid  was  tugging  at 
the  canoe,  struggling  to  move  it  toward  the 
water.  She  did  not  look  up  to  see  the  yellow, 
crimson,  and  green  painted  figures  rise  from 
the  reeds  that  fringed  the  water  but  a  few  yards 
away ;  she  did  not  hear  the  rush  of  moccasined 
feet  on  the  gravel.  Before  she  could  turn,  she 
was  seized  and  thrown  to  the  ground,  sur- 
rounded by  the  Indians,  who  were  facing  about 
hastily  to  meet  Menard.  The  Captain  came 
among  them  with  a  whirl  of  his  musket  that 
sent  one  warrior  to  the  ground  and  dropped 
another,  half  stunned,  across  the  canoe.  Dan- 
ton  was  at  his  heels,  and  Father  Claude,  fight- 
ing like  demons  with  muskets  and  knives. 

"  Quick,  Mademoiselle !  "  Menard  lifted  her 
as  he  spoke,  and  swung  her  behind  him ;  and 
then  the  three  were  facing  the  group  of  howl- 
ing, jumping  figures,  which  was  increased  rap- 
idly by  those  who  had  followed  the  Frenchmen 
down  the  bank.  "Come  back  here,  Father. 
Protect  the  maid !  They  dare  not  attack  you, 
if  you  drop  your  musket !  Loose  your  hold, 


A  COMPLIMENT   FOR   MENARD.  133 

Mademoiselle."  He  caught  roughly  at  the 
slender  arms  that  held  about  his  waist,  parrying 
a  knife  stroke  with  his  other  hand.  "  They 
will  kill  you  if  you  cling  to  me.  Now,  Danton ! 
Never  mind  your  arm.  I  have  one  in  the  hand. 
Fight  for  the  maid  and  France !  "  Menard  was 
shouting  for  sheer  lust  and  frenzy  of  battle. 
"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  devils  ?  Why 
don't  they  shoot  ?  God,  Danton,  they're  com- 
ing at  us  with  clubs ! "  He  called  out  in  the 
Iroquois  tongue :  "  Come  at  us,  cowards ! 
Make  an  end  of  it !  Where  are  your  bows  ? 
your  muskets?  Where  is  the  valour  of  the 
Onondagas  —  of  my  brothers  ?  " 

The  last  words  brought  forth  a  chorus  of 
jeers  and  yells.  The  two  officers  stood  side  by 
side  at  the  water's  edge.  Behind  them,  knee- 
deep  in  the  water,  was  Father  Claude,  holding 
the  maid  in  his  arms.  The  Indians  seemed  to 
draw  together,  still  with  that  evident  effort  to 
take  their  game  alive,  for  two  tall  chiefs  were 
rushing  about,  cautioning  the  warriors.  Then, 
of  a  sudden,  the  whole  body  came  forward  with 
a  rush,  and  Menard,  Danton,  Father  Claude, 
and  the  maid  went  down ;  the  three  men  fight- 
ing and  splashing  until  they  lay,  bound  with 
thongs,  on  the  beach. 


i34  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

Menard  turned  his  head  and  saw  that  Danton 
lay  close  to  him. 

"  Mademoiselle  ?"  he  said.  "  What  have  they 
done  with  her  ?  " 

"She  is  here."  The  reply  was  in  Father 
Claude's  voice.  It  came  from  the  farther  side 
of  Danton. 

"  Is  she  hurt  ?  " 

"  No.     But  they  have  bound  her  and  me." 

"  Bound  you  !  "  The  Captain  tried  to  sit  up, 
but  could  not.  "  They  would  not  do  that, 
Father.  It  is  a  mistake." 

A  warrior,  carrying  a  musket  under  his  arm, 
walked  slowly  around  the  prisoners,  making 
signs  to  them  to  be  silent.  The  others  had 
withdrawn  to  the  shadow  of  the  bank ;  the 
sound  of  their  voices  came  indistinctly  across 
the  strip  of  shore.  Indifferent  to  the  pain  in 
his  arm,  Menard  struggled  at  his  thongs,  and 
called  to  them  in  Iroquois :  "  Who  of  my 
brothers  has  bound  the  holy  Father?  What 
new  fear  strikes  the  breasts  of  the  sons  of  the 
night-wind  that  they  must  subdue  with  force 
the  gentle  spirit  of  their  Father,  who  has  given 
his  years  for  his  children  ?  Is  it  not  enough 
that  you  have  broken  the  faith  with  your 
brother,  the  child  of  your  own  village,  the  son 


A   COMPLIMENT   FOR   MENARD.  135 

of  your  bravest  chief?  Need  you  other  prey 
than  myself  ?  " 

The  guard  stood  over  Menard,  and  lifted  his 
musket.  Menard  laughed. 

"  Strike  me,  brave  warrior.  Show  that  your 
heart  is  still  as  fond  as  on  the  day  I  carried 
your  torn  body  on  my  shoulder  to  the  safety  of 
your  lodge.  Ah,  you  remember?  You  have 
not  forgotten  the  Big  Buffalo  ?  Then,  why  do 
you  hesitate?  The  man  who  has  courage  to 
seize  a  Father  of  the  Church,  surely  can  strike 
his  brother.  This  is  not  the  brave  Tegakwita 
I  have  known." 

Father  Claude  broke  in  on  Menard,  whose 
voice  was  savage  in  its  defiance. 

"  Have  patience,  M'sieu.  I  will  speak."  He 
lifted  his  voice.  "  Teganouan !  Father 
Claude  awaits  you."  There  was  no  reply  from 
the  knot  of  warriors  at  the  bank,  and  the  priest 
called  again.  Finally  a  chief  came  across  and 
looked  stolidly  at  the  prisoners. 

"  My  Father  called  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Your  Father  is  grieved,  Long  Arrow,  that 
you  would  bind  him  like  a  soldier  taken  in  war." 
The  priest's  voice  was  gentle.  "  Is  this  the 
custom  of  the  Onondagas  ?  It  was  not  so  when 
I  served  you  with  Father  de  Lamberville." 


136  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  My  Father  fought  against  his  children." 

"  You  would  have  slain  me,  Long  Arrow, 
had  I  not." 

The  Indian  walked  slowly  back  to  his  braves, 
and  for  some  moments  there  was  a  consultation. 
Then  the  other  chief  came  to  them,  and,  with- 
out a  word,  himself  cut  the  thongs  that  bound 
the  priest's  wrists  and  ankles.  There  was  no 
look  of  recognition  in  his  eyes  as  he  passed 
Menard,  though  they  had  been  together  on 
many  a  long  hunt.  He  was  the  Beaver. 

As  the  Captain  lay  on  his  back,  looking  first 
at  the  kneeling  Indian,  then  at  the  sky  over- 
head, he  was  thinking  of  the  Long  Arrow, 
again  with  a  half-memory  of  some  other  occa- 
sion when  they  had  met.  Then,  slowly,  it 
came  to  him.  It  was  at  the  last  council  to  de- 
cide on  his  release  from  captivity,  five  years 
before.  The  Long  Arrow  had  come  from  a 
distant  village  to  urge  the  death  of  the  prisoner. 
He  had  argued  eloquently  that  to  release  Me- 
nard would  be  to  send  forth  an  ungrateful  son 
who  would  one  day  strike  at  the  hand  that 
had  befriended  him. 

Father  Claude  was  on  his  feet,  chafing  his 
wrists  and  talking  with  the  Beaver.  The  Long 
Arrow  joined  them,  and  for  a  few  moments  the 


A   COMPLIMENT   FOR   MENARD.  137 

chiefs  reasoned  together  in  low,  dignified  tones. 
Then,  at  a  word  from  the  Beaver,  and  a  grunt 
of  disgust  from  the  Long  Arrow,  Father  Claude, 
with  quick  fingers,  set  the  maid  free,  and  took 
her  head  upon  his  knee. 

"Have  they  hurt  her,  Father?"  asked  Me- 
nard,  in  French. 

"  No,  M'sieu,  I  think  not.  It  is  the  excite- 
ment. The  child  sadly  needs  rest." 

"  Will  they  release  you  ?  It  is  not  far  to 
Frontenac.  It  may  be  that  you  can  reach 
there  with  Mademoiselle." 

"  No,  my  son."  The  priest  paused  to  dip  up 
some  water,  and  to  stroke  the  maid's  forehead 
and  wrists.  "  They  have  some  design  which 
has  not  been  made  clear  to  me.  They  have 
promised  not  to  bind  me  or  to  injure  what 
belongs  to  me  among  the  supplies.  But  the 
Beaver  threatens  to  kill  us  if  we  try  to  escape, 
Mademoiselle  and  I." 

"  Why  do  they  hold  you  ?  " 

"  To  let  no  word  go  out  concerning  your 
capture.  I  fear,  M'sieu  —  " 

"  Well  ? " 

The  priest  lowered  his  eyes  to  the  maid,  who 
still  lay  fainting,  and  said  no  more.  A  long 
hour  went  by,  with  only  a  commonplace  word 


138  THE  ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC. 

now  and  then  between  the  prisoners.  The 
maid  revived,  and  sat  against  the  canoe,  gazing 
over  the  water  that  swept  softly  by.  Danton 
lay  silent,  saying  nothing.  Once  a  groan 
slipped  past  the  Captain's  lips  at  a  twitch  of 
his  wounded  arm,  and  Father  Claude,  immedi- 
ately cheered  by  the  prospect  of  a  moment's 
occupation,  cleaned  the  wound  with  cool  water, 
and  bandaged  it  with  a  strip  from  his  robe. 

Preparations  were  making  for  a  start.  A 
half-dozen  braves  set  out,  running  down  the 
beach ;  and  shortly  returned  by  way  of  the  river 
with  two  canoes.  The  others  had  opened  the 
bales  of  supplies  (excepting  Father  Claude's 
bundle,  which  he  kept  by  him),  and  divided 
the  food  and  ammunition  among  themselves. 
The  two  chiefs  came  to  the  prisoners,  and 
seated  themselves  on  the  gravel.  The  Long 
Arrow  began  talking. 

"  My  brother,  the  Big  Buffalo,  is  surprised 
that  he  should  be  taken  a  prisoner  to  the  vil- 
lages of  the  Onondagas.  He  thinks  of  the 
days  when  he  shared  with  us  our  hunts,  our 
lodges,  our  food,  our  trophies ;  when  he  lived  a 
free  life  with  his  brothers,  and  parted  from 
them  with  sadness  in  his  voice.  He  had  a 
grateful  heart  for  the  Onondagas  then.  When 


A   COMPLIMENT   FOR   MENARD.  139 

he  left  our  lodges  he  placed  his  hand  upon  the 
hearts  of  our  chiefs,  he  swore  by  his  strange 
gods  to  keep  the  pledge  of  friendship  to  his 
brothers  of  the  forest.  Moons  have  come  and 
gone  many  times  since  he  left  our  villages. 
The  snow  has  fallen  for  five  seasons  between 
him  and  us,  to  chill  his  heart  against  those 
who  have  befriended  him.  Twice  has  he  been 
in  battle  when  we  might  have  taken  him  a 
prisoner,  but  the  hearts  of  our  braves  were 
warm  toward  him,  and  they  could  not  lift  their 
arms.  When  there  have  been  those  who  have 
urged  that  the  hatchet  be  taken  up  against 
him,  many  others  have  come  forward  to  say, 
'  No ;  he  will  yet  prove  our  friend  and  our 
brother.'  " 

Menard  lay  without  moving,  looking  up  at 
the  stars.  Danton,  by  his  side,  and  the  maid, 
sitting  beyond,  were  watching  him  anxiously. 
Father  Claude  stood  erect,  with  folded  arms. 

"  And  now,"  continued  the  chief,  "  now  that 
Onontio,  the  greatest  of  war  chiefs,  thinks 
that  he  is  strong,  and  can  with  a  blow  destroy 
our  villages  and  drive  us  from  the  lands  our 
gods  and  your  gods  have  said  to  be  ours  by 
right,  as  it  was  our  fathers',  —  now  there  is  no 
longer  need  for  the  friendship  of  the  Onondagas, 


i4o  THE  ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC. 

whose  whole  nation  is  fewer  than  the  fighting 
braves  of  the  great  Onontio.  The  war-song 
is  sung  in  every  white  village.  The  great 
canoes  take  food  and  powder  up  our  river, 
for  those  who  would  destroy  us." 

Menard  was  still  looking  upward.  "  My 
brother,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly,  "was  once 
a  young  brave.  When  he  was  called  before 
his  great  chief,  and  commanded  to  go  out  and 
fight  to  save  his  village  and  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  did  he  say  to  his  chief :  '  No,  my  father, 
I  will  no  longer  obey  your  commands.  I  will 
no  longer  strive  to  become  a  famous  warrior  of 
your  nation.  I  will  go  away  into  the  deep 
forest,  —  alone,  without  a  lodge,  without  a 
nation,  to  be  despised  alike  by  my  brothers 
and  my  foes  ? '  Or  did  he  go  as  he  was  bid, 
obeying,  like  a  brave  warrior,  the  commands  of 
those  who  have  a  right  to  command?  Does 
not  the  Long  Arrow  know  that  Onontio  is  the 
greatest  of  chiefs,  second  only  to  the  Great- 
Chief-Across-the- Water,  the  father  of  red  men 
and  white  men  ?  If  Onontio's  red  sons  are  dis- 
obedient, and  he  commands  me  to  chastise 
them,  shall  I  say  to  my  father,  '  I  cannot  obey 
your  will,  I  will  become  an  outcast,  without 
a  village  or  a  nation? '  The  Long  Arrow  is  a 


A  COMPLIMENT  FOR   MENARD.  141 

wise  man.  He  knows  that  the  duty  of  all  is  to 
obey  the  father  at  Quebec." 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  speaks  with  wisdom.  But 
it  may  be  he  forgets  that  our  braves  have 
passed  him  by  in  the  battles  of  every  season 
since  he  left  our  villages.  He  forgets  that  he 
met  a  band  of  peaceful  hunters  from  our  nation, 
who  went  into  his  great  stone  house  because 
they  believed  that  his  white  brothers,  if  not 
himself,  would  keep  the  word  of  friendship. 
He  forgets  that  they  were  made  to  drink  of 
the  white  man's  fire  water,  and  were  chained 
together  to  become  slaves  of  the  great  kind 
Chief- Across-the- Water,  who  loves  his  children, 
and  would  make  them  mighty  in  his  land.  Is 
this  the  father  he  would  have  us  obey  ?  Truly, 
he  speaks  with  an  idle  tongue." 

Menard  lay  silent.  His  part  in  La  Grange's 
treachery,  and  in  carrying  out  later  the  Gover- 
nor's orders,  would  be  hard  to  explain.  To  lay 
the  blame  on  La  Grange  would  not  help  his 
case,  at  least  until  he  could  consult  with  Father 
Claude,  and  be  prepared  to  speak  deliberately. 

"  My  brother  does  not  reply  ?  " 

"  He  will  ask  a  question,"  replied  Menard. 
"  What  is  the  will  of  the  chiefs  to  do  with  the 
sons  of  Onontio  ?  " 


i42  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  has  seen  the  punishment 
given  by  the  Onondagas  to  those  who  have 
broken  their  faith." 

"  I  understand  And  of  course  we  shall  be 
taken  to  your  villages  before  this  death  shall 
come  ? " 

The  Long  Arrow  bowed. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Menard,  in  his  slow  voice. 
"  As  the  Long  Arrow,  brave  as  he  is,  is  but  a 
messenger,  obeying  the  will  of  the  nation,  I  will 
withhold  my  word  until  I  shall  be  brought 
before  your  chiefs  in  council.  I  shall  have 
much  to  say  to  them ;  it  need  be  said  only 
once.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  tell  my  truths  to 
the  Big  Throat,  whose  eyes  can  see  beyond  the 
limits  of  his  lodge ;  who  knows  that  the  hand 
of  Onontio  is  a  firm  and  strong  hand.  He 
shall  know  from  my  lips  how  kind  Onontio 
wishes  to  be  to  his  ungrateful  children  — " 
He  paused.  The  Indians  must  not  know  yet 
that  the  Governor's  campaign  was  to  be  directed 
only  against  the  Senecas.  The  mention  of  the 
Big  Throat  would,  he  knew,  be  a  shaft  tipped 
with  jealousy  in  the  breast  of  the  Long  Arrow. 
The  Big  Throat,  Otreouati,  was  the  widest 
famed  orator  and  chief  of  the  Onondagas  ;  and 
it  was  he  who  had  adopted  Menard  as  his  son. 


A  COMPLIMENT  FOR  MENARD.  143 

Above  all,  the  Long  Arrow  would  not  dare 
to  do  away  with  so  important  a  prisoner  before 
he  could  be  brought  before  the  council. 

The  maid  was  leaning  forward,  following 
their  words  intently.  "  Oh,  M'sieu,"  she  said, 
"  I  cannot  understand  it  all.  What  will  they 
do  with  you  ?  " 

Menard  hesitated,  and  replied  in  French  with- 
out turning  his  head :  "  They  will  take  us  to 
their  villages  below  Lake  Ontario.  They  will 
not  harm  you,  under  Father  Claude's  protec- 
tion. And  then  it  is  likely  that  we  may  be 
rescued  before  they  can  get  off  the  river." 

"  But  yourself,  M'sieu  ?  They  are  angry 
with  you.  What  will  they  do  ?  " 

"  Lieutenant  Danton  and  I  must  look  out 
for  ourselves.  I  shall  hope  that  we  may  find 
a  way  out." 

The  Long  Arrow  was  looking  closely  at 
them,  evidently  resenting  a  woman's  voice  in 
the  talk.  At  the  silence,  he  spoke  in  the  same 
low  voice,  but  Menard  and  Father  Claude  read 
the  emotion  underneath. 

"  It  may  be  that  the  Big  Buffalo  has  never 
had  a  son  to  brighten  his  days  as  his  life 
reaches  the  downward  years.  It  may  be  that 
he  has  not  watched  the  papoose  become  a  fleet 


144 


THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 


youth,  and  the  youth  a  tireless  hunter.  He 
may  not  have  waited  for  the  day  when  the 
young  hunter  should  take  his  seat  at  the  council 
and  speak  with  those  who  will  hear  none  but 
wise  men.  I  had  such  a  son.  He  went  on  the 
hunt  with 'a  band  that  never  returned  to  the 
village."  His  voice  rose  above  the  pitch  cus- 
tomary to  a  chief.  It  was  almost  cold  in  its 
intensity.  "  I  found  his  body,  my  brother,  the 
body  of  my  son,  at  this  place,  killed  by  the 
white  men,  who  talked  to  us  of  the  love  of  their 
gods  and  their  Chief-Across-the- Water.  Here 
it  was  I  found  him,  who  died  before  he  would 
become  the  slave  of  a  white  man ;  and  here  I 
have  captured  the  man  who  killed  him.  It  is 
well  that  we  have  not  killed  my  brother  to-night. 
It  is  better  that  we  should  take  him  alive  before 
the  council  of  the  Onondagas,  who  once  were 
proud  in  their  hearts  that  he  was  of  their  own 
nation." 

The  maid's  eyes,  shining  with  tears,  were 
fixed  on  the  Indian's  face.  She  had  caught  up 
with  her  hand  the  flying  masses  of  her  hair  and 
braided  them  hastily ;  but  still  there  were  locks 
astray,  touched  by  the  light  of  the  starlit  sky. 
Menard  turned  his  head,  and  watched  her  dur- 
ing the  long  silence.  Danton  was  watching 


A   COMPLIMENT   FOR   MENARD.  145 

her  too.  He  had  not  understood  the  chief's 
story,  but  it  was  clear  from  her  face  that  she 
had  caught  it  all.  It  was  Father  Claude  who 
finally  spoke.  His  voice  was  gentle,  but  it  had 
the  air  of  authority  which  his  long  experience 
had  taught  him  was  necessary  in  dealing  with 
the  Indians. 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  has  said  wisely.  He  will 
speak  only  to  the  great  chiefs  of  the  nation,  who 
will  understand  what  may  be  beyond  the  minds 
of  others.  The  heart  of  the  Long  Arrow  is 
sad,  his  spirit  cast  down,  and  he  does  not  see 
now  what  to-morrow  he  may,  —  that  the  hand 
of  the  Big  Buffalo  is  not  stained  with  the  blood 
of  his  son.  We  will  go  to  your  village,  and 
tell  your'  chiefs  many  things  they  cannot  yet 
know.  For  the  Big  Buffalo  and  his  young 
brother,  I  shall  ask  only  the  justice  which  the 
Onondagas  know  best  how  to  give.  For  my- 
self and  my  sister,  I  am  not  afraid.  We  will 
follow  your  course,  to  come  back  when  the 
chiefs  shall  order  it." 

The  two  Indians  exchanged  a  few  signs,  rose, 
and  went  to  the  scattered  group  of  braves,  who 
were  feasting  on  the  white  men's  stores.  In  a 
moment  these  had  thrown  the  bundles  together, 
and  were  getting  the  canoes  into  the  water. 


146  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Two  warriors  cut  Danton's  thongs  and  raised 
him  to  his  feet.  He  rubbed  his  wrists,  where 
the  thongs  had  broken  the  skin,  and  stepped 
about  to  set  the  stiffness  from  his  ankles. 

O 

Then  he  bent  down  to  set  Menard  loose, 
but  was  thrown  roughly  back. 

"What's  this?  What's  the  matter?  Do 
you  understand  this,  Menard  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  the  Captain,  quietly. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  little  compliment  to  me,  that  is  all." 

Danton  stood  looking  at  him  in  surprise, 
until  he  was  hustled  to  the  nearest  canoe  and 
ordered  to  take  a  paddle.  He  looked  back  and 
saw  four  warriors  lift  Menard,  still  bound  hand 
and  foot,  and  carry  him  to  the  other  canoe,  lay- 
ing him  in  the  bottom  beneath  the  bracing- 
strips.  Father  Claude,  too,  was  given  a  paddle. 
Then  they  glided  away  over  the  still  water,  into 
a  mysterious  channel  that  wound  from  one 
shadow-bound  stretch  to  another,  past  islands 
that  developed  faintly  from  the  blackness  ahead 
and  faded  into  the  blackness  behind.  The 
lean  arms  of  the  Indians  swung  with  a  tireless 
rhythm,  and  their  paddles  slipped  to  and  fro 
in  the  water  with  never  a  sound,  save  now  and 
then  a  low  splash. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE    MAID    MAKES    NEW    FRIENDS. 

'"THE  prisoners  were  allowed  some  freedom 
*  in  the  Onondaga  village.  They  were  not 
bound,  and  they  could  wander  about  within  call 
of  the  low  hut  which  had  been  assigned  to  them. 
This  laxity  misled  Danton  into  supposing  that 
escape  was  practicable. 

"  See,"  he  said  to  Menard,  "  no  one  is  watch- 
ing. Once  the  dark  has  come  we  can  slip 
away,  all  of  us." 

Menard  shook  his  head. 

"  Do  you  see  the  two  warriors  sitting  by  the 
hut  yonder,  —  and  the  group  playing  platter 
among  the  trees  behind  us  ?  Did  you  suppose 
they  were  idling  ?  " 

"  They  seem  to  sleep  often." 

"You  could  not  do  it.  We  shall  hope  to 
get  away  safely ;  but  it  will  not  be  like  that." 

Danton  was  not  convinced.  He  said  noth- 
ing further,  but  late  on  that  first  night  he  made 

147 


148  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

the  attempt  alone.  The  others  were  asleep, 
and  suspected  nothing  until  the  morning. 
Then  Father  Claude,  who  came  and  went  freely 
among  the  Indians,  brought  word  that  he  had 
been  caught  a  league  to  the  north.  The  Indians 
bound  him,  and  tied  him  to  stakes  in  a  strongly 
guarded  hut.  This  much  the  priest  learned 
from  Tegakwita,  the  warrior  who  had  guarded 
them  on  the  night  of  their  capture.  After  Me- 
nard's  appeal  to  his  gratitude  he  had  shown  a 
willingness  to  be  friendly,  and,  though  he 
dared  do  little  openly,  he  had  given  the  cap- 
tives many  a  comfort  on  the  hard  journey 
southward. 

Later  in  the  morning  Menard  and  Mademoi- 
selle St.  Denis  were  sitting  at  the  door  of  their 
hut.  The  irregular  street  was  quiet,  excepting 
for  here  and  there  a  group  of  naked  children 
playing,  or  a  squaw  passing  with  a  load  of  fire- 
wood on  her  back.  An  Indian  girl  came  in 
from  the  woods  toward  them.  She  was  of 
light,  strong  figure,  with  a  full  face  and  long 
hair,  which  was  held  back  from  her  face  by 
bright  ribbons.  Her  dress  showed  more  than 
one  sign  of  Mission  life.  She  was  cleaner  than 
most  of  the  Indians,  and  was  not  unattractive. 
She  came  to  them  without  hesitation. 


THE   MAID   MAKES   NEW   FRIENDS.        149 

"  I  am  Tegakwita's  sister.  My  name  is 
Mary;  the  Fathers  at  the  Mission  gave  it  to 
me." 

Menard  hardly  gave  her  a  glance,  but  Made- 
moiselle was  interested. 

"  That  is  not  your  Indian  name  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  —  Mary." 

"  Did  you  never  have  another  ? " 

"  My  other  name  is  forgotten." 

"  These  Mission  girls  like  to  ape  our  ways," 
said  Menard,  in  French. 

The  girl  looked  curiously  at  them,  then  she 
untied  a  fold  of  her  skirt,  and  showed  a  heap  of 
strawberries.  "  For  the  white  man's  squaw," 
she  said. 

Mademoiselle  blushed  and  laughed.  "  Thank 
you,"  she  replied,  holding  out  her  hands.  The 
girl  gave  her  the  berries,  and  turned  away. 
Menard  looked  up  as  a  thought  came  to  him. 

"  Wait,  Mary.  Do  you  know  where  the 
young  white  chief  is  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  tried  to  run  away.  He  cannot 
run  away  from  our  warriors." 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  go  to  him  ?  " 

"  My  brother,  Tegakwita,  is  guarding  him. 
I  am  not  afraid." 

Menard  went  to  a  young  birch  tree  that  stood 


1 5o  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

near  the  hut,  peeled  off  a  strip  of  bark,  and 
wrote  on  it :  — 

"  If  you  try  to  escape  again  you  will  endan- 
ger my  plans.  Keep  your  patience,  and  I  can 
save  you." 

"  Will  you  take  him  some  berries,  and  give 
him  this  charm  with  them  ? " 

She  took  the  note,  rolled  it  up  with  a  nod, 
and  went  away.  Menard  saw  the  question  in 
Mademoiselle's  eyes,  and  said  :  "  It  was  a  warn- 
ing to  be  cool.  Our  hope  is  in  getting  the 
good-will  of  the  chiefs." 

"  Will  they —  will  they  hurt  him,  M'sieu  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not.  At  least  we  are  still  alive  and 
safe ;  and  years  ago,  Mademoiselle,  I  learned 
how  much  that  means." 

The  maid  looked  into  the  trees  without  reply- 
ing. Her  face  had  lost  much  of  its  fulness, 
and  only  the  heavy  tan  concealed  the  w£>rn  out- 
lines. But  her  eyes  were  still  bright,  and  her 
spirit,  now  that  the  first  shock  had  passed,  was 
firm. 

Father  Claude  returned,  after  a  time,  with  a 
heavy  face.  He  drew  Menard  into  the  hut,  and 
told  him  what  he  had  gathered :  that  the  Long 
Arrow  and  his  followers  were  planning  a  final 
vengeance  against  Captain  Menard.  All  the 


THE   MAID   MAKES   NEW   FRIENDS.        151 

braves  knew  of  it ;  everywhere  they  were  talk- 
ing of  it,  and  preparing  for  the  feasting  and 
dancing. 

"  They  will  wait  until  after  the  fighting,  won't 
they?" 

"  No,  M'sieu.  It  is  planned  to  begin  soon, 
within  a  day  or  two." 

"  Have  you  inquired  for  the  Big  Throat  ?  " 

"  He  is  five  leagues  away,  at  the  next  village. 
We  can  hardly  hope  for  help  from  him,  I  fear. 
All  the  tribes  are  preparing  to  join  in  fighting 
our  troops." 

Menard  paused  to  think. 

"  It  looks  bad,  Father."  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  hut.  "  The  Governor's  column  must 
have  followed  up  the  river  within  a  few  days  of 
us.  Then  much  time  was  lost  in  getting  us 
down  here."  He  turned  almost  fiercely  to  the 
priest.  "  Why,  the  campaign  may  have  opened 
already.  Word  may  come  to-morrow  from  the 
Senecas  calling  out  the  Onondagas  and  Cayu- 
gas.  Do  you  know  what  that  means?  It 
means  that  I  have  failed,  —  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  Father,  —  miserably  failed.  There  must 
be  some  way  out.  If  I  could  only  get  word  to 
the  Big  Throat.  I'm  certain  I  could  talk  him 
over.  I  have  done  it  before." 


i52  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

Father  Claude  had  never  before  seen  despair 
in  Menard's  eyes. 

"You  speak  well,  M'sieu.  There  must  be 
some  way.  God  is  with  us." 

The  Captain  was  again  pacing  the  beaten 
floor.  Finally  he  came  to  the  priest,  and  took 
his  arm.  "  I  don't  know  what  it  is  that  gives 
me  courage,  Father,  but  at  my  age  a  man  isn't 
ready  to  give  up.  They  may  kill  me,  if  they 
like,  but  not  before  I've  carried  out  my  orders. 
The  Onondagas  must  not  join  the  Senecas." 

"  How  "  —  began  the  priest 

Menard  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  know  yet, 
—  but  we  can  do  it."  He  went  out  of  doors, 
as  if  the  sunlight  could  help  him,  and  during 
the  rest  of  the  day  and  evening  he  roamed 
about  or  lay  motionless  under  the  trees.  The 
maid  watched  him  until  dark,  but  kept  silent ; 
for  Father  Claude  had  told  her,  and  she,  too, 
believed  that  he  would  find  a  way. 

Late  in  the  evening  Father  Claude  began  to 
feel  disturbed.  Menard  was  still  somewhere 
off  among  the  trees.  He  had  come  in  for  his 
handful  of  grain,  at  the  supper  hour,  but  with 
hardly  a  word.  The  Father  had  never  suc- 
ceeded, save  on  that  one  occasion  when  Dan- 
ton  was  the  subject,  in  carrying  on  a  long 


THE   MAID    MAKES   NEW   FRIENDS.        153 

conversation  with  the  maid ;  and  now  after  a 
few  sorry  attempts  he  went  out  of  doors.  He 
thought  of  going  to  the  Captain,  to  cheer  his 
soul  and  prepare  his  mind  for  whatever  fate 
awaited  him,  but  his  better  judgment  held 
him  back. 

The  village  had  no  surface  excitement  to 
suggest  coming  butchery  and  war.  The  chil- 
dren were  either  asleep  or  playing  in  the  open. 
Warriors  walked  slowly  about,  wrapped  closely 
in  blankets,  though  the  night  was  warm.  The 
gnats  and  mosquitoes  were  humming  lazily,  the 
trees  barely  stirring,  and  the  voices  of  gossip- 
ing squaws  or  merry  youths  blended  into  a  low 
drone.  There  was  the  smell  in  the  air  of  wood 
and  leaves  burning,  from  a  hundred  smouldering 
fires.  Father  Claude  stood  for  a  long  time 
gazing  at  the  row  of  huts,  and  wondering  that 
such  an  air  of  peace  and  happiness  could  hover 
over  a  den  of  brute  savages,  who  were  even  at 
the  moment  planning  to  torture  to  his  death 
one  of  the  bravest  sons  of  New  France. 

While  he  meditated,  he  was  half  conscious  of 
voices  near  at  hand.  He  gave  it  no  attention 
until  his  quick  ear  caught  a  French  word.  He 
started,  and  hurried  to  the  hut,  pausing  in  the 
door.  By  the  dim  light  of  the  fire,  that  burned 


154  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

each  night  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  he  could 
see  Mademoiselle  standing  against  the  wall, 
with  hands  clasped  and  lips  parted.  Nearer, 
with  his  back  to  the  door,  stood  an  Indian. 

The  maid  saw  the  Father,  but  did  not  speak. 
He  came  forward  into  the  hut,  and  gently 
touched  the  Indian's  arm. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  asked  in  Iroquois. 

The  Indian  stood,  without  a  reply,  until  the 
silence  grew  heavy.  Mademoiselle  had  straight- 
ened up,  and  was  watching  with  fascinated  eyes. 
Then,  slowly,  the  warrior  turned,  and  beneath 
buckskin  and  feathers,  dirt  and  smeared  colours, 
the  priest  recognized  Danton.  He  turned  sadly 
to  the  maid. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  he  said. 

She  put  her  hands  before  her  eyes.  "  I  can- 
not talk  to  him,"  she  said,  in  a  broken  voice. 
"  Why  does  he  come  ?  Why  must  I  —  "  Then 
she  collected  herself,  and  came  forward.  Pity 
and  dignity  were  in  her  voice.  "  I  am  sorry, 
Lieutenant  Danton.  I  am  very  sorry." 

The  boy  choked,  and  Father  Claude  drew 
him,  unresisting,  outside  the  hut. 

"  How  did  you  come  here,  Danton  ?  Tell 
me." 

Danton  looked  at  him  defiantly. 


THE   MAID   MAKES   NEW   FRIENDS.         155 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  Where  did  you  get 
these  clothes  ? " 

"  It  matters  not  where  I  got  them.  It  is  my 
affair." 

"  Who  gave  you  these  clothes  ?  " 

"  It  is  enough  that  I  have  friends,  if  those 
whom  I  thought  friends  will  not  aid  me." 

The  priest  was  pained  by  the  boy's  rough 
words. 

"I  am  sorry  for  this,  my  son,  —  for  this 
strange  disorder.  Did  you  not  receive  a  mes- 
sage from  your  Captain  ?  " 

Danton  hesitated.  "  Yes,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  I  received  a  message,  —  an  order  to  lie  quiet, 
and  let  these  red  beasts  burn  me  to  death. 
Menard  is  a  fool.  Does  he  not  know  that  they 
will  kill  him  ?  Does  he  not  know  that  this  is 
his  only  chance  to  escape  ?  He  is  a  fool,  I  say." 

"  You  forget,  my  son." 

"Well,  if  I  do?  Must  I  stay  here  for  the 
torture  because  my  Captain  commands?  Why 
do  you  hold  me  here  ?  Let  me  go.  They  will 
be  after  me." 

"  Wait,  Danton.  What  have  you  said  to 
Mademoiselle  ? " 

The  boy  looked  at  him,  and  for  a  moment 
could  not  speak. 


156  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Do  you,  too,  throw  that  at  me,  Father?  It 
was  all  I  could  do.  I  thought  she  cared  for 
her  life  more  than  for  —  for  Menard.  No,  let 
me  go  on.  I  have  risked  everything  to  come 
for  her,  and  she  —  she — I  did  not  know  it 
would  be  like  this." 

"  But  what  do  you  plan?  "  The  priest's  voice 
was  more  gentle.  "  Where  are  you  going  ? 
You  cannot  get  to  Frontenac  alone." 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Danton  wearily, 
turning  away.  "  I  don't  care  now.  I  may  as 
well  go  to  the  devil." 

Without  a  word  of  farewell  he  walked  boldly 
off  through  the  trees,  drawing  his  blanket 
about  his  shoulders.  Father  Claude  stood 
watching  him,  half  in  mind  to  call  Menard, 
then  hesitating.  Already  the  boy  was  com- 
mitted :  he  had  broken  his  bonds,  and  to  make 
any  effort  to  hold  him  meant  certain  death  for 
him.  Perhaps  it  was  better  that  he  should  take 
the  only  chance  left  to  him.  The  hut  was 
silent.  He  looked  within,  and  saw  the  maid 
still  standing  by  the  wall.  Her  eyes  were  on 
him,  but  she  said  nothing,  and  he  turned  away. 
He  walked  slowly  up  and  down  under  the 
great  elms  that  arched  far  up  over  his  head. 
At  last  he  looked  about  for  the  Captain,  and 


THE   MAID   MAKES   NEW   FRIENDS.        157 

finding  him  some  little  way  back  in  the  woods, 
told  him  the  story. 

Menard's  face  had  aged  during  the  day. 
His  eyes  had  a  dull  firmness  in  place  of  the  old 
flash.  He  heard  the  account  without  a  word, 
and,  at  the  close,  when  the  priest  looked  at 
him  questioningly  for  a  reply,  he  shook  his 
head  sadly.  His  experiment  with  Danton  had 
failed. 

"  He  didn't  tell  you  who  had  helped  him  ? " 

"  No,  M'sieu.     It  is  very  strange." 

"  Yes,"  said  Menard,  "  it  is." 

The  night  passed  without  further  incident. 
Early  in  the  morning,  Father  Claude  went  out 
to  find  Tegakwita,  and  learn  what  news  had 
come  in  during  the  night  of  the  French 
column.  Runners  were  employed  in  passing 
daily  between  the  different  villages,  keeping 
each  tribe  fully  informed. 

Menard  sat  before  the  hut.  The  clearing 
showed  more  life  than  on  the  preceding  day. 
Bands  of  warriors,  hunting  and  scouting  parties, 
were  coming  in  at  short  intervals,  scattering  to 
their  shelters  or  hurrying  to  the  long  building 
in  the  centre  of  the  village.  The  growing 
boys  and  younger  warriors  ran  about,  calling  to 
one  another  in  eager,  excited  voices.  As  the 


i58  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

morning  wore  along,  grave  chiefs  and  braves, 
wrapped  in  their  blankets,  walked  by  on  their 
way  to  the  council  house. 

The  maid,  after  Father  Claude  had  gone, 
watched  the  Captain  for  a  long  time  through 
the  open  door.  The  conversation  with  the 
Long  Arrow,  on  the  night  of  their  capture,  had 
been  burned  into  her  memory;  and  now,  as 
she  looked  at  Menard's  drawn  face  and  weary 
eyes,  the  picture  came  to  her  again  of  the  Long 
Arrow  sitting  by  the  river  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  stars,  —  and  of  the  white  man  who  had 
fought  for  her,  lying  before  him,  gazing  upward 
and  speaking  with  a  calm  voice  to  the  stern 
chief  who  wished  to  kill  him.  Then,  in  spite 
of  the  excitement,  the  danger,  and  exhaustion 
of  the  fight,  it  had  seemed  that  the  Captain 
could  not  long  be  held  by  this  savage.  His 
stern  manner,  his  command,  had  given  her  a 
confidence  which  had,  until  this  moment, 
strengthened  her.  But  now,  of  a  sudden,  she 
saw  in  his  eyes  the  look  of  a  man  who  sees 
no  way  ahead.  This  quarrel  with  the  Long 
Arrow  was  no  matter  of  open  warfare,  even  of 
race  against  race ;  it  was  an  eye  for  an  eye,  the 
demand  of  a  crazed  father  for  the  life  of  the 
slayer  of  his  son.  That  she  could  do  nothing, 


THE   MAID    MAKES   NEW   FRIENDS.        159 

that  she  must  sit  feebly  while  he  went  to  his 
death,  came  to  her  with  a  dead  sense  of  pain. 

With  a  restless  spirit  she  went  out  of  doors, 
passing  him  with  a  little  smile ;  but  he  did  not 
look  up.  A  group  of  passing  youths  stopped 
and  jeered  at  him,  but  he  did  not  give  them  a 
glance.  She  shrank  back  against  the  building 
until  they  had  gone  on. 

"  Do  not  mind  them,  Mademoiselle,"  said 
Menard,  quietly.  "  They  will  not  harm  you." 

She  hesitated  by  his  side,  half  in  mind  to 
speak  to  him,  to  tell,  him  that  she  knew  his 
trouble,  and  had  faith  in  him,  but  his  bowed 
head  was  forbidding  in  its  solitude.  All  about 
the  hut,  under  the  spreading  trees,  was  a  stretch 
of  coarse  green  sod,  dotted  with  tiny  yellow 
flowers  and  black-centred  daisies.  She  wan- 
dered over  the  grass,  gathering  them  until  her 
hands  were  full.  Two  red  boys  came  by,  and 
paused  to  cry  at  her,  taunting  her  as  if  she,  too, 
were  to  meet  the  fate  of  a  war  captive.  The 
thought  made  her  shudder,  but  then,  on  an 
impulse,  she  called  to  them  in  their  own  lan- 
guage. They  looked  at  each  other  in  surprise. 
She  walked  toward  them,  laying  down  the 
flowers,  and  holding  out  her  hand.  A  little 
later,  when  Menard  looked  up,  he  saw  her 


160  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

sitting  beneath  a  gnarled  oak,  a  boy  on  either 
side  eagerly  watching  her.  She  was  talking 
and  laughing  with  them,  and  teaching  them  to 
make  a  screeching  pipe  with  grass-blades  held 
between  the  thumbs.  He  envied  her  her  elastic 
spirits. 

"  You  have  made  two  friends,"  he  called  in 
French. 

She  looked  up  and  nodded,  laughing.-  "  They 
are  learning  to  make  the  music  of  the  white 
brothers." 

The  boys'  faces  had  sobered  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice.  They  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  and 
then  at  each  other.  He  got  up  and  walked 
slowly  toward  them. 

"  I  will  make  friends,  too,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  smiling.  "  We  have  none  too  many  here." 

Before  he  had  taken  a  dozen  steps,  the  boys 
arose.  He  held  out  his  hands,  saying,  "  Your 
father  would  be  friends  with  his  children."  But 
they  began  to  retreat,  a  step  at  a  time. 

"  Come,  my  children,"  said  the  maid,  smiling 
at  the  words  as  she  uttered  them.  "  The  white 
father  is  good.  He  will  not  hurt  you." 

They  kept  stepping  backward  until  he  had 
reached  the  maid's  side ;  then,  with  a  shout  of 
defiance,  they  scampered  away.  In  the  dis- 


THE   MAID   MAKES   NEW   FRIENDS.        161 

tance  they  stopped,  and  soon  were  the  centre  of 
a  group  of  children  whom  they  taught  to  blow 
on  the  grass-blades,  with  many  a  half-fright- 
ened glance  toward  Menard  and  the  maid. 

"  There,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  you  may  see 
the  advantage  of  a  reputation." 

She  looked  at  him,  and,  moved  by  the  pathos 
underlying  the  words,  could  not,  for  the  moment, 
reply. 

"  I  once  had  a  home  in  this  village,"  he 
added.  "  It  stood  over  there,  in  the  bare  spot 
near  the  beech  tree."  His  eyes  rested  on  the 
spot  for  a  moment,  then  he  turned  back  to  the 
hut. 

"  M'sieu,"  she  said  shyly. 

The  little  heap  of  flowers  lay  where  she  had 
dropped  them ;  and,  taking  them  up,  she  arranged 
them  hastily  and  held  them  out.  "  Won't  you 
take  them  ? " 

He  looked  at  her,  a  little  surprised,  then  held 
out  his  hand. 

"  Why,  —  thank  you.  I  don't  know  what  I 
can  do  with  them." 

They  walked  back  together. 

"  You  must  wear  some  of  the  daisies,  Made- 
moiselle. They  will  look  well." 

She  looked  down  at  her  torn,  stained  dress, 


162  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

and  laughed  softly;  but  took  the  white  cluster 
he  gave  her,  and  thrust  the  stems  through  a 
tattered  bit  of  lace  on  her  breast. 

Menard  was  plainly  relieved  by  the  incident. 
He  had  been  worn  near  to  despair,  facing  a 
difficulty  which  seemed  every  moment  farther 
from  a  solution ;  and  now  he  turned  to  her 
fresh,  light  mood  as  to  a  refuge. 

"  We  must  put  these  in  water,  Mademoiselle, 
or  they  will  soon  lose  their  bloom." 

"  If  we  had  a  cup  —  ?  " 

"  A  cup  ?  A  woodsman  would  laugh  at  your 
question.  There  is  the  spring,  here  is  the 
birch ;  what  more  could  you  have  ? " 

"  You  mean  —  ?  " 

"  We  will  make  a  cup,  —  if  you  will  hold  the 
flowers.  They  are  beautiful,  Mademoiselle. 
No  nation  has  such  hills  and  lakes  and  flowers 
as  the  Iroquois.  The  Hurons  boast  of  their 
lake  country,  —  and  the  Sacs  and  Foxes,  too, 
though  they  have  a  duller  eye  for  the  pictur- 
esque. See — the  valley  yonder — "  He  pointed 
through  a  rift  in  the  foliage  to  the  league-long 
glimpse  of  green,  bound  in  by  the  gentle  hills 
that  rose  beyond  —  "even  to  the  tired  old 
soldier  there  is  nothing  more  beautiful,  more 
peaceful." 


THE   MAID    MAKES   NEW   FRIENDS.        163 

He  peeled  a  long  strip  of  bark  from  the  birch 
tree,  and  rolled  it  into  a  cup.  "  Your  needle 
and  thread,  Mademoiselle,  —  if  they  have  not 
taken  them." 

"  No ;  I  have  everything  here." 

She  got  her  needle,  and  under  his  direction 
stitched  the  edges  of  the  bark. 

"  But  it  will  leak,  M'sieu." 

He  laughed.  "  The  tree  is  the  Indian's 
friend,  Mademoiselle.  Now  it  is  a  pine  tree 
that  we  need.  The  guards  will  tell  me  of  one." 

He  walked  over  to  the  little  group  of  war- 
riors still  at  their  game  of  platter,  —  the  one 
never-ceasing  recreation  of  the  Onondagas,  at 
which  they  would  one  day  gamble  away 
blankets,  furs,  homes,  even  squaws,  only  to 
win  them  back  on  the  next.  They  looked  at 
him  suspiciously  when  he  questioned  them ; 
but  he  was  now  as  light  of  heart  as  on  the  day, 
a  few  weeks  earlier,  when  he  had  leaned  on  the 
balcony  of  the  citadel  at  Quebec,  idly  watching 
the  river.  He  smiled  at  them,  and  after  a 
parley  the  maid  saw  one  tall  brave  point  to  a 
tree  a  few  yards  farther  in  the  wood.  They 
followed  him  closely  with  their  eyes  until  he 
was  back  within  the  space  allowed  him. 

"  Now,  Mademoiselle,  we  can  gum  the  seams, 


164  /THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

—  see?  It  is  so  easy.  The  cold  water  will 
harden  it." 

They  went  together  to  the  spring  and  filled 
the  cup,  first  drinking  each  a  draught.  He 
rolled  a  large  stone  to  the  hut  door,  and  set 
the  cup  on  it. 

"  Oh,  Mademoiselle,  it  will  not  stand.  I  am 
not  a  good  workman,  I  fear.  But  then,  it  is 
not  often  in  a  woodsman's  life  that  he  keeps 
flowers  at  his  door.  We  must  have  some 
smaller  stones  to  prop  it  up." 

"  I  will  get  them,  M'sieu."  In  spite  of  his 
protests  she  ran  out  to  the  path  and  brought 
some  pebbles.  "  Now  we  have  decorated  our 
home."  She  sat  upon  the  ground,  leaning 
against  the  log  wall,  and  smiling  up  at  him. 
"  Sit  down,  M'sieu.  I  am  tired  of  being  solemn, 
we  have  been  solemn  so  long." 

Already  the  heaviness  was  coming  back  on 
the  Captain.  He  wondered,  as  he  looked  at 
her,  if  she  knew  how  serious  their  situation  was. 
It  hardly  seemed  that  she  could  understand  it, 
her  gay  mood  was  so  genuine.  She  glanced  up 
again,  and  at  the  sight  of  the  settling  lines 
about  his  mouth  and  the  fading  sparkle  in  his 
eyes,  her  own  eyes,  while  the  smile  still  hovered, 
grew  moist. 


THE   MAID    MAKES   NEW    FRIENDS.        165 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  softly,  —  "  very,  very 
sorry." 

He  sat  near  by,  and  fingered  the  flowers  in 
the  birch  cup.  They  were  both  silent.  Finally 
she  spoke. 

"  M'sieu." 

He  looked  down. 

"  It  may  be  that  you  think  that  —  that  I  do 
not  understand.  It  is  not  that,  M'sieu.  But 
when  I  think  about  it,  and  the  sadness  comes, 
I  know,  some  way,  that  it  is  going  to  come  out 
all  right.  We  are  prisoners,  but  other  people 
have  been  prisoners,  too.  I  have  heard  of  many 
of  them  from  Father  Dumont.  He  himself 
has  suffered  among  the  Oneidas.  I  —  I  cannot 
believe  it,  even  when  it  seems  the  darkest." 

"  I  hope  you  are  right,  Mademoiselle.  I,  too, 
have  felt  that  there  must  be  a  way.  And  at  the 
worst,  they  will  not  dare  to  hurt  Father  Claude 
and  —  you."  And  under  his  breath  he  added, 
"  Thank  God." 

"  They  will  not  dare  to  hurt  you,  M'sieu. 
They  must  not  do  it."  She  rose  and  stood 
before  him.  "  When  I  think  of  that,  —  that  you, 
who  have  done  so  much  that  I  might  be  safe, 
are  in  danger,  I  feel  that  it  would  be  cowardly 
for  me  to  go  away  without  you.  You  would 


1 66  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

not  have  left  me,  on  the  river.  I  know  you 
would  have  died  without  a  thought.  And  I  — • 
if  anything  should  happen,  M'sieu  ;  if  Father 
Claude  and  I  should  be  set  free,  and  —  without 
you  —  I  could  never  put  it  from  my  thoughts. 
I  should  always  feel  that  I  —  that  you  —  no  no, 
M'sieu.  They  cannot  do  it." 

She  shook  away  a  tear,  and  looked  at  him 
with  an  honest,  fearless  gaze.  It  was  the  out- 
pouring of  a  grateful  heart,  true  because  she 
herself  was  true,  because  she  could  not  accept 
his  care  and  sacrifice  without  a  thought  of  what 
she  owed  him. 

"  You  forget,"  he  said  gently,  "  that  it  was 
not  your  fault.  They  could  have  caught  me  as 
easily  if  you  had  not  been  there.  It  is  a  sol- 
dier's chance,  Mademoiselle.  He  must  take 
what  life  brings,  with  no  complaint.  It  is  the 
young  man's  mistake  to  be  restless,  impatient. 
For  the  rest  of  us,  why,  it  is  our  life." 

"  But,  M'sieu,  you  are  not  discouraged  ? 
You  have  not  given  up  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  given  up."  He  rose  and 
looked  into  her  eyes.  "  I  have  come  through 
before ;  I  may  again.  If  I  am  not  to  get  through, 
I  shall  fight  them  till  I  drop.  And  then,  I  pray 
God,  I  may  die  like  a  soldier." 


THE   MAID   MAKES   NEW  FRIENDS.        167 

He  turned  away  and  went  into  the  hut. 
He  was  in  the  hardest  moment  of  his  trial.  It 
was  the  inability  to  fight,  the  lack  of  freedom, 
of  weapons,  the  sense  of  helplessness,  that  had 
come  nearer  to  demoralizing  Menard  than  a 
hundred  battles.  He  had  been  trusted  with 
the  life  of  a  maid,  and,  more  important  still, 
with  the  Governor's  orders.  He  was,  it  seemed, 
to  fail. 

The  maid  stood  looking  after  him.  She 
heard  him  drop  to  the  ground  within.  Then 
she  roamed  aimlessly  about,  near  the  building. 

Father  Claude  came  up  the  path,  walking 
slowly  and  wearily,  and  entered  the  hut.  A 
moment  later  Menard  appeared  in  the  doorway 
and  called :  — 

"  Mademoiselle."  As  she  approached,  he 
said  gravely,  "  I  should  like  it  if  you  will 
come  in  with  us.  It  is  right  that  you  should 
have  a  voice  in  our  councils." 

She  followed  him  in,  wondering. 

"  Father  Claude  has  news,"  Menard  said. 

The  priest  told  them  all  that  he  had  been 
able  to  learn.  Runners  had  been  coming  in 
during  the  night  at  intervals  of  a  few  hours. 
They  brought  word  of  the  landing  of  the  French 
column  at  La  Famine.  The  troops  had  started 


1 68  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

inland  toward  the  Seneca  villages.  The  Sen- 
ecas  were  planning  an  ambush,  and  meanwhile 
had  sent  frantic  messages  to  the  other  tribes 
for  aid.  The  Cayuga  chiefs  were  already  on 
the  way  to  meet  in  council  with  the  Onondagas. 
The  chance  that  the  attack  might  be  aimed 
only  at  the  Senecas,  to  punish  them  for 
their  depredations  of  the  year  before,  had  given 
rise  to  a  peace  sentiment  among  the  more  pru- 
dent Onondagas  and  Cayugas,  who  feared  the 
destruction  of  their  fields  and  villages.  Up  to 
the  present,  none  had  known  where  the  French 
would  strike.  But,  nevertheless,  said  the 
priest,  the  general  opinion  was  favourable  to 
taking  up  the  quarrel  with  the  Senecas. 

Further,  the  French  were  leaving  a  rear- 
guard of  four  hundred  men  in  a  hastily  built 
stockade  at  La  Famine,  and  the  more  loose- 
tongued  warriors  were  already  talking  of  an 
attack  on  this  force,  cutting  the  Governor's 
communications,  and  then  turning  on  him  from 
the  rear,  leaving  it  to  the  Senecas  to  engage 
him  in  front. 


F 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE    WORD    OF    AN    ONONDAGA. 

OR  a  long  time  after  Father  Claude  had 
finished  speaking,  the  three  sat  talking  over 
the  situation.  Even  the  maid  had  suggestions. 
But  when  all  had  been  said,  when  the  chances 
of  a  rescue  by  the  French,  or  of  getting  a  hear- 
ing before  the  council,  even  of  a  wild  dash  for 
liberty,  had  been  gone  over  and  over,  their 
voices  died  away,  and  the  silence  was  eloquent. 
D'Orvilliers  would  know  that  only  capture 
could  have  prevented  them  from  reaching  the 
fort;  but  even  supposing  him  to  believe  that 
they  were  held  by  the  Onondagas,  he  had 
neither  the  men  nor  the  authority  to  fight 
through  the  Cayuga  lakes  and  hills  to  reach 
them.  As  for  the  Governor's  column,  it  would, 
have  its  hands  full  before  marching  ten  leagues 
from  La  Famine.  Had  Menard  been  alone,  he 
would  have  made  the  attempt  to  escape,  know- 
ing from  the  start  that  the  chance  was  near  to 

169 


1 7o  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

nothing,  but  glad  of  the  opportunity  at  least  to 
die  fighting.  But  with  Mademoiselle  to  delay 
their  progress,  and  to  suffer  his  fate  if  captured, 
it  was  different.  As  matters  stood,  she  was 
likely  to  be  released  with  Father  Claude,  as  soon 
as  he  should  be  disposed  of.  And  so  his  mind 
had  settled  on  staying,  and  dying,  if  he  must, 
alone. 

"  I  have  not  known  whether  to  tell  all,"  said 
Father   Claude,  after   the  silence.     "And   yet' 
it  would  seem  that  Mademoiselle  may  as  well 
know  the  truth  now  as  later." 

"  You  have  not  told  me  ?  "  she  said,  with  re- 
proach in  her  voice.  "  Must  I  always  be  a 
child  to  you,  Father  ?  If  God  has  seen  it  best 
to  place  me  here,  am  I  not  to  help  bear  the 
burden  ? " 

"  Mademoiselle  is  right,  Father.  Hold  noth- 
ing back.  Three  stout  hearts  are  better  than 
two." 

The  priest  looked  gravely  at  the  fire. 

"  The  word  has  gone  out,"  he  said.  "  The 
Long  Arrow,  by  his  energy  and  his  eloquence, 
but  most  of  all  because  he  had  the  courage  to 
capture  the  Big  Buffalo  in  the  enemy's  country 
with  but  a  score  of  braves,  now  controls  the 
village.  To-morrow  night  the  great  council  will 


THE  WORD   OF  AN   ONONDAGA.           17! 

begin.  The  war  chiefs  of  all  the  Cayuga  and 
Onondaga  and  Oneida  and  Mohawk  villages 
will  meet  here  and  decide  whether  to  take  up 
the  hatchet  against  the  white  men.  The  Long 
Arrow  well  knows  that  his  power  will  last  only 
until  the  greater  chiefs  come,  and  he  will  have 
his  revenge  before  his  day  wanes." 

"  When  ?  "  asked  the  Captain. 

"  To-morrow  morning,  M'sieu.  The  feasting 
and  dancing  will  begin  to-night." 

The  maid  was  looking  at  the  priest.  "  I  do 
not  understand,"  she  said.  "  What  will  he 
do?" 

"  He  means  me,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, quietly. 

"  Not  —  "  she  said,  "  not  —  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  They  will  bring  us  no 
food  to-night.  In  the  morning  they  will  come 
for  me." 

"  Oh,  M'sieu,  they  cannot !  They  —  "  She 
gazed  at  him,  not  heeding  the  tears  that  sud- 
denly came  to  her  eyes  and  fell  down  upon  her 
cheeks ;  and,  as  she  looked,  she  understood  what 
was  in  his  mind.  "  Why  do  you  not  escape, 
M'sieu  ?  There  is  yet  time,  —  to-night !  You 
are  thinking  of  me,  and  I  —  I  —  Oh,  I  have 
been  selfish  —  I  did  not  know !  We  will  stay 


1 72  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

here,  Father  Claude  and  I.  You  need  not 
think  of  us ;  they  will  not  harm  us  —  you  told 
me  that  yourself,  M'sieu.  I  should  be  in  your 
way,  but  alone  —  it  is  so  easy."  She  would 
have  gone  on,  but  Menard  held  up  his  hand. 

"  No,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "  no." 

Her  lips  moved,  but  she  saw  the  expression 
in  his  eyes,  and  the  words  died.  She  turned  to 
Father  Claude,  but  he  did  not  look  up. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Menard,  slowly, 
"whether  the  heart  of  the  Big  Throat  is  still 
warm  toward  me.  He  was  once  as  my  father." 

"  He  will  not  be  here  in  time,"  Father 
Claude  said.  "  He  does  not  start  from  his  vil- 
lage until  the  sun  is  dropping  on  the  morrow." 

The  maid  could  not  take  her  eyes  from 
Menard's  face.  Now  that  the  final  word  had 
come,  now  that  all  the  doubts  of  the  unsettled 
day,  now  only  half  gone,  had  settled  into  a  fact 
to  be  faced,  he  was  himself  again,  the  quiet, 
resolute  soldier.  Only  the  set,  almost  hard 
lines  about  the  mouth  told  of  his  suffering. 

"  If   we  had  a  friend  here,"  he  was  saying, 
quietly  enough,  "  it  may  be  that  Tegakwita  - 
But  no,  of  course  not.     I  had  forgotten  about 
Danton  —  " 

"  Tegakwita  has  lost  standing  in  the  tribe  for 


THE   WORD   OF   AN    ONONDAGA.  173 

allowing  Lieutenant  Danton  to  escape.  He  is 
very  bitter.  We  can  ask  nothing  from  him." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not." 

The  cool  air  of  these  two  men,  the  manner 
in  which  they  could  face  the  prospect,  coupled 
with  her  own  sense  of  weakness,  weighed  hard 
upon  the  maid's  heart.  She  felt  that  she  must 
cry  out,  must  in  some  manner  give  way  to  her 
feelings.  She  rose  and  hurried  into  the  open 
air.  The  broad  sunlight  was  still  sifting  down 
through  the  leaves  and  lying  upon  the  green 
earth  in  bright  patches.  The  robins  were  sing- 
ing, and  many  strange  birds,  whose  calls  she  did 
not  know,  but  who  piped  gently,  musically,  so 
in  harmony  with  the  soft  landscape  that  their 
notes  seemed  a  part  of  it.  It  was  all  unreal, 
this  quiet,  sunlit  world,  where  the  birds  were 
free  as  the  air  which  bore  their  songs,  while  the 
brave  Captain  —  she  could  not  face  the  thought. 

The  birch  cup  was  still  on  the  stone  by  the 
door.  She  lifted  out  the  flowers  with  their 
dripping  stems,  and  rearranged  them  carefully, 
placing  a  large  yellow  daisy  in  the  centre. 

An  Indian  was  approaching  up  the  path.  He 
had  thrown  aside  his  blanket,  and  he  strode 
rapidly,  clad  in  close-fitting  jacket  and  leggings 
of  deerskin,  with  knife  and  hatchet  slung  at  his 


i74  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

waist.  He  came  straight  to  the  hut  and  en- 
tered, brushing  by  her  without  a  glance.  Just 
as  he  passed  she  recognized  him.  He  was 
Tegakwita.  Her  fear  of  these  stern  warriors 
had  suddenly  gone,  and  she  followed  him  into 
the  doorway  to  hear  his  errand.  Menard 
greeted  him  with  a  nod;  Father  Claude,  too, 
was  silent. 

"The  White  Chief,  the  Big  Buffalo,  has  a 
grateful  heart,"  said  the  Indian,  in  cutting 
tones.  She  was  glad  that  she  could  under- 
stand him.  She  took  a  flower  from  the  bunch 
at  her  breast,  and  stood  motionless  in  the  low 
doorway,  pulling  the  petals  apart,  one  by  one^ 
and  watching  the  little  group  within.  The 
priest  and  the  Captain  were  sitting  on  the 
ground,  Menard  with  his  hands  clasped  easily 
about  his  knees.  Tegakwita  stood  erect,  with 
his  back  to  the  door.  "  He  feels  the  love  of  a 
brother  for  those  who  would  make  sacrifices 
for  him,"  he  went  on.  "  It  was  many  years 
ago  that  he  saved  Tegakwita  from  the  perils  of 
the  hunt.  Tegakwita  has  not  forgotten.  When 
the  White  Chief  became  a  captive,  he  had  not 
forgotten.  He  has  lost  his  brave  name  as  a 
warrior  because  he  believed  in  the  White  Chief. 
He  has  lost  —  "  his  voice  grew  tremulous  with 


THE   WORD   OF   AN    ONONDAGA.  175 

the  emotion  that  lay  underneath  the  words  — 
"  He  has  lost  his  sister,  whom  he  sent  to  be  a 
sister  to  the  white  man  and  his  squaw." 

"  My  brother  speaks  strangely,"  said  Menard, 
looking  up  at  him  half  suspiciously. 

"  Yes,  it  is  strange."  His  voice  was  louder, 
and  in  his  excitement  he  dropped  the  indirect 
form  of  speech  that,  in  the  case  of  an  older 
warrior,  would  have  concealed  his  feelings.  "  It 
is  strange  that  you  should  send  my  sister,  who 
came  to  you  in  trust,  to  release  the  white  brave. 
It  is  strange  you  should  rob  me  of  her  whom 
my  father  placed  by  my  side." 

Menard  and  Father  Claude  looked  at  each 
other.  The  Indian  watched  them  narrowly. 

"  My  son  is  mistaken,"  said  Father  Claude, 
quietly.  "  His  sister  has  wandered  away.  It 
may  be  that  she  has  even  now  returned." 

"  No,  my  Father.  The  white  brave  has  stolen 
her." 

Menard  got  up,  and  spoke  with  feeling. 

"  Tegakwita  does  not  understand.  The 
white  brave  was  foolish.  He  is  a  young  war- 
rior. He  does  not  know  the  use  of  patience. 
He  first  escaped  against  my  orders.  The  word 
I  sent  by  your  sister  was  a  command  to  be 
patient.  He  went  alone,  my  brother.  He  has 


1 76  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

gone  forever  from  my  camp.  It  cannot  be  that 
she  —  " 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  speaks  lies.  Who  came 
to  cut  the  white  brave's  bonds  ?  Who  stole  the 
hunting  coat,  the  leggings  of  Tegakwita,  that 
her  lover  might  go  free  ?  Who  has  dishon- 
oured herself,  her  brother,  the  father  that  —  " 
Words  failed  him,  and  he  stood  facing  them 
with  blazing  eyes. 

Menard  glanced  at  the  maid,  but  she  had 
passed  the  point  where  a  shock  could  sway  her, 
and  now  stood  quietly  at  the  door,  waiting  to 
hear  what  more  the  warrior  would  say.  But  he 
stood  motionless.  Father  Claude  touched  his 
arm. 

"  If  this  is  true,  Tegakwita,  the  Big  Buffalo 
must  not  be  held  to  blame.  He  has  spoken 
truly.  To  talk  in  these  words  to  the  man  who 
has  been  your  brother,  is  the  act  of  a  dog.  You 
have  forgotten  that  the  Big  Buffalo  never 
speaks  lies." 

The  Indian  gave  no  heed  to  his  words.  He 
took  a  step  forward,  and  raised  his  hand  to  his 
knife.  Menard  smiled  contemptuously,  and 
spread  out  his. hands;  he  had  no  weapon.  But 
Tegakwita  had  a  second  thought,  and  dropped 
his  hand. 


THE  WORD   OF   AN   ONONDAGA.           177 

"  Tegakwita,  too,  never  speaks  lies,"  he  said. 
"  He  will  come  back  before  the  sun  has  come 
again." 

He  walked  rapidly  out,  crowding  roughly 
past  the  maid. 

Menard  leaned  against  the  wall.  "  Poor 
boy !  "  he  said,  "  poor  boy !  " 

The  maid  came  slowly  in,  and  sat  on  the 
rude  bench  which  leaned  against  the  logs  near 
the  door.  The  strain  of  the  day  was  drawing 
out  all  the  strength,  the  womanhood,  that  lay 
behind  her  buoyant  youth.  Already  the  tan 
was  fading  from  her  face,  here  in  the  hut  and 
under  the  protecting  elms;  and  the  whiteness 
of  her  skin  gave  her,  instead  of  a  worn  appear- 
ance, the  look  of  an  older  woman,  —  firmer,  with 
greater  dignity.  Her  eyes  had  a  deeper,  fuller 
understanding. 

"  I  suppose  that  there  is  nothing,  M'sieu  — 
nothing  that  we  can  do?  " 

Menard  shook  his  head.     "  No ;  nothing." 

"  And  the  Indian, — he  says  that  he  will  come 
back  ? " 

"Yes.  I  don't  know  what  he  means.  It 
doesn't  matter." 

"  No,  I  suppose  it  doesn't." 

They    were    silent    for    a    moment.      The 


178  THE   ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC. 

maid  leaned  forward.  "What  was  that, 
M'sieu?" 

"  Loungers,  on  the  path." 

"  No,  they  are  coming  here." 

Menard  rose,  but  she  stepped  to  the  door. 
"  Let  me  go,  M'sieu.  Ah,  I  see  them.  It  is 
my  little  friends."  She  went  out,  and  they 
could  hear  her  laughing  with  the  two  children, 
and  trying  to  coax  them  toward  the  door. 

"  Danton  will  never  get  away,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, in  a  low  tone  to  the  priest. 

"  I  fear  not,  M'sieu." 

"  He  has  lost  his  head,  poor  boy.  I  thought 
him  of  better  stuff.  And  the  girl  —  Ah,  if  he 
had  only  gone  alone  !  I  could  forgive  his  rash- 
ness, Father,  his  disobedience,  if  only  he  could 
go  down  with  a  clear  name." 

"  There  is  still  doubt,"  said  the  priest,  cau- 
tiously. "We  know  only  what  Tegakwita 
said." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  Menard  replied,  shaking  his 
head,  "  I'm  afraid  it's  true.  You  said  he  wore 
the  hunting  clothes.  Some  one  freed  him. 
And  the  girl  is  gone.  I  wish  —  Well,  there  is 
no  use.  I  hoped  for  something  better,  that  is 
all." 

Just  outside  the  door  the  maid  was  talking 


THE  WORD  OF  AN   ONONDAGA.           179 

gaily  with  the  two  children,  who  now  and  then 
raised  their  piping  voices.  Then  it  was  evident 
that  they  were  going  away,  for  she  was  calling 
after  them.  She  came  into  the  hut,  smiling, 
and  carrying  a  small  willow  basket  full  of 
corn. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  even  now  it  is  something 
to  have  made  a  friend.  We  shall  not  go 
hungry  to-day,  after  all.  Will  you  partake, 
Father?  And  M'sieu?" 

She  paused  before  the  Captain.  He  had 
stepped  forward,  and  was  staring  at  her. 

"  Where  are  they  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  children  ?  They  are  wandering  along 
the  path." 

"  Quick,  Mademoiselle !     Call  them  back." 

She  hesitated,  in  surprise  ;  then  set  the  basket 
on  the  ground  and  obeyed.  Menard  paced  the 
floor  until  she  returned. 

"They  are  outside,  M'sieu,  too  frightened  to 
come  near." 

"  Give  me  that  birch  cup,  outside  the  door." 
He  was  speaking  in  quick,  low  tones.  "  They 
must  not  see  me.  It  would  frighten  them." 

She  brought  him  the  cup,  and  he  emptied 
the  flowers  on  the  floor,  tearing  open  the 
seams,  and  drying  the  wet  white  bark  on  his 


i8o  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

sleeve.  He  snatched  a  charred  coal  from  the 
heap  of  ashes  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  and 
wrote  rapidly  in  a  strange  mixture  of  words 
and  signs.  "A  piece  of  thread,  Mademoiselle. 
And  look  again  —  see  that  they  have  not 
gone." 

"  They  are  waiting,  M'sieu." 

He  rolled  the  bark  tightly,  and  tied  it  with 
the  thread  which  she  brought  from  her  bundle. 

"  We  must  have  a  present.  Father  Claude, 
you  have  your  bale.  Find  something  quickly,  — 
something  that  will  please  them.  No,  wait  — 
Mademoiselle,  have  you  a  mirror  ?  They 
would  run  fifty  leagues  for  a  mirror." 

She  nodded,  rummaged  through  her  bundle, 
and  brought  out  a  small  glass. 

"  Take  this,  Mademoiselle.  Tell  them  to 
give  this  letter  to  the  Big  Throat,  at  the  next 
village.  They  will  know  the  way.  He  must 
have  it  before  the  day  is  over.  No  harm  can 
come  to  them.  If  anyone  would  punish  them, 
the  Big  Throat  will  protect  them.  You  must 
make  them  do  it.  They  cannot  fail." 

Her  face  flushed,  and  her  eyes  snapped  as 
she  caught  his  nervous  eagerness.  Even  Father 
Claude  had  risen,  and  was  watching  him  with 
kindling  eyes.  She  took  the  roll  and  the 


THE   WORD   OF   AN   ONONDAGA.  181 

mirror,  and  ran  out  the  door.  In  a  moment, 
Menard,  pacing  the  floor,  could  hear  her  merry 
laugh,  and  the  shrill-voiced  delight  of  the 
children  over  their  new  toy.  He  caught  the 
priest's  hand. 

"  Father,  we  shall  yet  be  free.  Who  could 
fail  with  such  a  lieutenant  as  that  maid.  How 
she  laughs.  One  would  think  she  had  never  a 
care." 

At  last  she  came  back,  and  sank,  with  a 
nervous,  irresponsible  little  laugh,  on  the  bench. 
And  then,  for  the  moment,  they  all  three 
laughed  together. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  Father  Claude 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"  I  must  go  out  again,  M'sieu.  It  may  be 
that  there  is  further  word." 

"  Very  well,  Father.  And  open  your  ears 
for  news  of  the  poor  boy." 

The  priest  bowed,  and  went  out.  Menard 
stood  in  the  door  watching  him,  as  he  walked 
boldly  along  the  path.  After  a  little  he  turned. 
The  maid  was  looking  at  him,  still  flushed  and 
smiling. 

"Well,  Mademoiselle,  we  can  take  hope 
again." 

"  You  are  so  brave,  M'sieu." 


182  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

He  smiled  at  her  impulsiveness,  and  looked 
at  her,  hardly  conscious  that  he  was  causing 
her  to  blush  and  lower  her  eyes. 

"  And  so  I  am  brave,  Mademoiselle  ?  It  may 
be  that  Major  Provost  and  Major  d'Orvilliers 
will  not  feel  so." 

"  But  they  must,  M'sieu." 

"  Do  you  know  what  they  will  say  ?  They 
will  speak  with  sorrow  of  Captain  Menard,  the 
trusted,  in  whose  hands  Governor  Denonville 
placed  the  most  important  commission  ever 
given  to  a  captain  in  New  France.  They  will 
regret  that  their  old  friend  was  not  equal  to  the 
test;  that  he  —  ah,  do  not  interrupt,  Made- 
moiselle; it  is  true  —  that  his  failure  lost  a 
campaign  for  New  France.  You  heard  Father 
Claude;  you  know  what  these  Indians  plan  to  do." 

"  You  must  not  speak  so,  M'sieu.  It  is 
wicked.  He  would  be  a  coward  who  could 
blame  you.  It  was  not  your  fault  that  you  were 
captured.  When  I  return  I  shall  go  to  them 
and  tell  them  how  you  fought,  and  how  you 
faced  them  like  —  like  a  hero.  When  I 
return  — "  She  stopped,  as  if  the  word  were 
strange. 

"  Aye,  Mademoiselle,  and  God  grant  that  you 
may  return  soon.  But  your  good  heart  leads 


THE  WORD   OF  AN   ONONDAGA.           183 

you  wrong.  It  was  my  fault  that  I  did  not  bring 
a  force  strong  enough  to  protect  myself,  —  and 
you.  To  fight  is  not  a  soldier's  first  duty.  It 
is  to  be  discreet ;  he  must  know  when  not  to 
fight  as  well  as  when  to  draw  his  sword;  he 
must  know  how  many  men  are  needed  to  de- 
fend his  cause.  No ;  I  was  overconfident,  and 
I  lost.  And  there  we  must  leave  it.  Nothing 
more  can  be  said." 

He  stood  moodily  over  the  heap  of  ashes. 
When  he  looked  at  her  again,  she  had  risen. 

"  The  flowers,  M'sieu,"  she  said,  "  you  —  you 
threw  them  away." 

He  glanced  down.  They  lay  at  his  feet. 
Silently  he  knelt  and  gathered  them. 

"  Will  you  help  me,  Mademoiselle  ?  We  will 
make  another  cup.  And  these  two  large  daisies, 
—  did  you  see  how  they  rested  side  by  side 
on  the  ground  when  I  would  have  trampled  on 
them  ?  You  will  take  one  and  I  the  other ;  and 
when  this  day  shall  be  far  in  the  past,  it  may  be 
that  you  will  remember  it,  and  how  we  two 
were  here  together,  waiting  for  the  stroke  that 
should  change  life  for  us." 

He  held  it  out,  and  she,  with  lowered  eyes, 
reached  to  take  it  from  his  hand,  but  suddenly 
checked  the  motion  and  turned  to  the  door, 


184  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Will  you  take  it,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

She  did  not  move ;  and  he  stood,  the  soldier, 
helpless,  waiting  for  a  word.  He  had  forgotten 
everything,  —  the  low,  smoke-blackened  hut, 
the  responsibility  that  lay  on  his  shoulders,  the 
danger  of  the  moment,  —  everything  but  the 
slender  maid  who  stood  before  him,  who  would 
not  take  the  flower  from  his  hand.  Then  he 
stepped  to  her  side,  and,  taking  away  the  other 
flowers  from  the  lace  beneath  her  throat,  he 
placed  the  single  daisy  in  their  stead.  Her 
eyes  were  nearly  closed,  and  she  seemed  hardly 
to  know  that  he  was  there. 

"  And  it  may  be,"  he  whispered  softly,  "  that 
we,  like  the  flowers,  shall  be  spared." 

She  turned  slowly  away,  and  sank  upon  the 
bench.  Menard,  with  a  strange,  new  lightness 
in  his  heart,  went  out  into  the  sunlight. 

The  day  wore  on.  The  warm  sunbeams, 
that  slipped  down  through  the  foliage,  length- 
ened and  reached  farther  and  farther  to  the 
east.  The  bright  spots  of  light  crept  across 
the  grass,  climbed  the  side  of  the  hut  and  the 
tree-trunks,  lingered  on  the  upreaching  twigs, 
and  died  away  in  the  blue  sky.  The  evening 
star  shot  out  its  white  spears,  glowing  and  radi- 
ant, long  before  the  light  had  gone,  or  the  purple 


THE  WORD   OF  AN   ONONDAGA.          185 

and  golden  afterglow  had  faded  into  twilight. 
Menard's  mind  went  back  to  another  day,  just 
such  a  glorious,  shining  June  day  as  this  had 
been,  when  he  had  sat  not  a  hundred  yards 
from  this  spot,  waiting,  as  now,  for  the  end. 
He  looked  at  his  fingers.  They  were  scarred 
and  knotted  ;  one  drunken,  frenzied  squaw  had 
mangled  them  with  her  teeth.  He  had  won- 
dered then  how  a  man  could  endure  such  tor- 
ture as  had  come  to  him,  and  still  could  live 
and  think,  could  even  struggle  back  to  health. 
The  depression  had  gone  from  him  now ;  his 
mind  was  more  alert  than  since  the  night  of 
the  capture.  Whether  it  was  the  bare  chance 
of  help  from  the  Big  Throat,  or  the  gentle  sad- 
ness in  the  face  of  the  maid  as  she  bowed  her 
head  to  the  single  daisy  on  her  breast,  —  some- 
thing had  entered  into  his  nerves  and  heart, 
something  hopeful  and  strong.  He  wondered, 
as  Father  Claude  came  up  the  path,  slowly, 
laboriously,  why  the  priest  should  be  so  sad- 
dened. After  all,  the  world  was  green  and 
bright,  and  life,  even  a  few  hours  of  it,  was 
sweet. 

"  What  news,  Father  ?  " 

The  priest  shook  his  head.    "  Little,  M'sieu." 

"  Has  the  feast  begun  ?  " 


1 86  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Not  yet.  They  are  assembling  before  the 
Long  House." 

"  Are  they  drinking  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

There  was  no  need  for  talk,  and  so  the  two 
men  sat  before  the  hut,  with  only  an  idle  word 
now  and  then,  until  the  dark  came  down.  The 
quiet  of  the  village  was  broken  now  by  the 
shouts  of  drinking  warriors,  with  a  chanting 
undertone  that  rose  and  swelled  slowly  into 
the  song  that  would  continue,  both  men  knew, 
until  the  break  of  day,  or  until  none  was  left 
with  sober  tongue  to  carry  the  wavering  air. 
A  great  fire  had  been  lighted,  and  they  could 
see  the  glare  and  the  sparks  beyond  a  cluster 
of  trees  and  huts.  Later,  straggling  braves 
appeared,  wandering  about,  bottle  or  flask  in 
hand,  crazed  by  the  raw  brandy  with  which  the 
English  and  Dutch  of  New  York  and  Orange 
and  the  French  of  the  province  alike  saw  fit  to 
keep  the  Indians  supplied. 

A  group  of  the  warriors  came  from  the  dance, 
and  staggered  toward  the  hut  of  the  captives. 
They  were  armed  with  knives  and  hatchets. 
One  had  an  arquebuse,  which  he  fired  at  the 
trees  as  often  as  the  uncertain  hands  of  all 
of  them  could  load  it.  He  caught  sight  of  the 


THE   WORD   OF   AN    ONONDAGA.  187 

white  men  sitting  in  the  shadow,  and  came 
toward  them,  his  fellows  at  his  heels. 

"  Move  nearer  the  door,"  whispered  Menard. 
"  They  must  not  get  in." 

The  two  edged  along  the  ground  without 
rising,  until  they  sat  with  their  backs  in  the 
open  doorway.  The  Indians  hung  about,  a  few 
yards  away,  jeering  and  shouting.  The  one 
with  the  arquebuse  evidently  wished  to  shoot, 
but  the  others  were  holding  his  arms,  and 
reasoning  in  thick  voices.  No  construction  of 
the  Iroquois  traditions  could  make  it  right  to 
kill  a  prisoner  who  was  held  for  the  torture. 

The  white  men  watched  them  quietly.  Me- 
nard heard  a  rustle,  and  the  sound  of  a  quick 
breath  behind  him,  and  he  said,  without  taking 
his  eyes  from  the  Indians :  — 

"  Step  back,  Mademoiselle,  behind  the  wall. 
You  must  not  stand  here." 

The  warrior  broke  away  from  the  hands  that 
held  him,  staggering  a  rod  across  the  grass 
before  he  could  recover  his  balance.  The 
others  went  after  him,  but  he  quickly  rested  the 
piece  and  fired.  The  ball  went  over  their 
heads  through  the  doorway,  striking  with  a  low 
noise  against  the  rear  wall.  Menard  rose, 
jerking  away  from  the  priest's  restraining  hand. 


1 88  THE  ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  you  are  not  hurt  ?  " 

"  No,  M'sieu." 

"  Thank  God ! "  He  stood  glaring  at  the 
huddled  band  of  warriors,  who  were  trying  to 
reload  the  arquebuse ;  then  he  bounded  forward, 
broke  into  the  group  with  a  force  that  sent  two 
to  the  ground,  snatched  the  weapon,  and,  with 
a  quick  motion,  drew  out  the  flint.  He  threw 
the  gun  on  the  ground,  and  walked  back  to  his 
seat. 

Two  of  the  guards  came  running  forward. 
They  had  not  been  drinking,  and  one  of  them 
ordered  the  loafers  away.  This  did  not  strike 
them  amiss.  They  started  off,  trying  to  reload 
as  they  walked,  evidently  not  missing  the  flint. 

The  maid  came  again  to  the  doorway,  and 
asked  timidly :  — 

"  Is  there  danger  for  you,  M'sieu  ?  Will 
they  come  back  ? " 

"  No.  It  is  merely  a  lot  of  drunken  youths. 
They  have  probably  forgotten  by  now.  Can 
you  sleep,  Mademoiselle  ?  —  have  you  tried  ?  " 

"  No,  I  —  I  fear  that  I  could  not." 

"  It  would  be  well  to  make  the  effort,"  he 
said  gently,  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  her  as 
she  leaned  against  the  doorpost.  "  We  do  not 
know  what  may  happen.  At  any  rate,  even  if 


THE  WORD   OF  AN   ONONDAGA.           189 

you  escape,  you  will  need  all  your  strength  on 
the  morrow.  A  fallen  captain  may  not  com- 
mand, Mademoiselle,  but  —  " 

"  If  it  is  your  command,  M'sieu,  I  will  try. 
Good  night." 

There  was  a  long  stillness,  broken  only  by 
the  distant  noises  of  the  dance, 

"  You,  too,  will  sleep,  M'sieu  ? "  said  Father 
Claude.  "  I  will  watch." 

"  No,  no,  Father." 

"  I  beg  it  of  you.  At  the  least  you  will  let 
me  divide  the  night  with  you  ?  " 

"  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see.  There  is  much  to 
be  said  before  either  of  us  closes  his  eyes. 
Hello,  here  is  a  runner." 

An  Indian  was  loping  up  the  path.  He 
turned  in  toward  the  hut. 

"  Quiet,"  said  the  priest.    "  It  is  Tegakwita." 

The  warrior  had  run  a  long  way.  He  was 
breathing  deeply,  and  the  sweat  stood  out  on 
his  face  and  caught  the  shine  of  the  firelight. 

"  My  brother  has  been  far,"  said  Menard, 
rising. 

"The  White  Chief  is  "not  surprised?  He 
heard  the  word  of  Tegakwita,  that  he  would 
return  before  another  sun.  He  has  indeed 
been  far.  He  has  followed  the  track  of  the 


I9o  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

forest  wolf  that  stole  the  child  of  the  Ononda- 
gas.  He  has  found  the  bold,  the  brave  white 
warrior,  who  stole  away  in  the  night,  robbing 
Tegakwita  of  what  is  dearer  to  him  than  the 
beating  of  his  heart." 

The  maid  stood  again  in  the  doorway,  resting 
a  hand  on  the  post,  and  leaning  forward  with 
startled  eyes. 

"  He  has  found  —  he  has  found  him  —  "  she 
faltered. 

The  Indian  did  not  look  at  her.  He  drew 
something  from  the  breast  of  his  shirt,  and 
threw  it  on  the  ground  at  Menard's  feet.  Then, 
with  broken-hearted  dignity,  he  strode  away 
and  disappeared  in  the  night. 

Father  Claude  stooped,  and  picked  up  the 
object.  Dimly  in  the  firelight  they  could  see 
it,  —  two  warm  human  scalps,  the  one  of  brown 
hair  knotted  to  the  other  of  black.  Menard 
took  them  in  his  hand. 

"  Poor  boy !  "  he  said,  over  and  over.  "  Poor 
boy!" 

He  looked  toward  the  door,  but  the  maid 
had  gone  inside. 


CHAPTER   X. 

A    NIGHT    COUNCIL. 

'""PHE  night  crept  by,  as  had  the  day,  wearily. 
*  The  two  men  sat  in  the  doorway  or 
walked  slowly  back  and  forth  across  the  front 
of  the  hut,  saying  little.  The  Captain  was  call- 
ing to  mind  every  incident  of  their  capture,  and 
of  the  original  trouble  between  La  Grange  and 
the  hunting  party.  He  went  over  the  conver- 
sation with  Major  Provost  at  Quebec  word  by 
word,  until  he  felt  sure  in  his  authority  as  the 
Governor's  representative ;  although  the  writ- 
ten orders  in  the  leather  bag  that  hung  from 
his  neck  were  concerned  only  with  his  duties 
in  preparing  Fort  Frontenac  for  the  advancing 
column,  —  duties  that  he  had  not  fulfilled. 

A  plan  was  forming  in  his  mind  which  would 
make  strong  demands  on  the  good  faith  of 
Major  Provost  and  the  Governor.  He  knew, 
as  every  old  soldier  knows,  that  governments 
and  rulers  are  thankless,  that  even  written  au- 

191 


192  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

thority  is  none  too  binding,  if  to  make  it  good 
should  inconvenience  those  who  so  easily  give 
it.  He  knew  further  that  if  he  should  succeed 
now  in  staying  the  Onondagas  and  Cayugas  by 
pledges  which,  perchance,  it  might  not  please 
Governor  Denonville  to  observe,  the  last  frail 
ties  that  held  the  Iroquois  to  the  French  would 
be  broken,  and  England  would  reign  from  the 
Hudson  to  the  river  of  the  Illinois.  And  he 
sighed,  as  he  had  sighed  many  times  before,  for 
the  old  days  under  Frontenac,  under  the  only 
Governor  of  New  France  who  could  hold  these 
slippery  redskins  to  their  obligations. 

"  Father,"  he  said  finally,  "  I  begin  to  see  a 
way." 

"  The  Big  Throat  ?  " 

"He  must  help,  though  to  tell  the  truth  I 
fear  that  he  will  be  of  little  service.  He  may 
come  in  time  to  give  us  a  stay;  but,  chief 
though  he  is,  he  will  hardly  dare  overrule 
the  Long  Arrow  on  a  matter  so  personal  as 
this." 

"What  is  the  Long  Arrow's  family — the 
Beaver?" 

"Yes." 

"  But,  M'sieu,  that  is  the  least  of  the  eight 
families.  If  it  were  the  Tortoise  or  the  Bear 


A   NIGHT  COUNCIL.  193 

against  us,  we  should  have  greater  cause  for 
fear." 

"  True,  Father,  but  to  each  family  belongs 
its  own  quarrels,  its  own  revenge.  If  the  Big 
Throat  should  interfere  too  deeply,  it  would 
anger  the  other  small  families,  who  might  fear 
the  same  treatment  at  some  other  time.  And 
with  Beaver,  Snipe,  Deer,  and  Potato  united 
against  us, — well,  it  is  a  simple  enough  prob- 
lem." 

They  were  walking  by  the  door,  and  Menard, 
as  he  spoke,  sat  on  the  stone  which  he  had 
rolled  there  in  the  afternoon.  The  priest  stood 
before  him. 

"  I  hope  we  may  succeed,  my  son.  I  have 
seen  this  anger  before,  and  it  has  always  ended 
in  the  one  way." 

"  Of  course,"  the  Captain  replied,  "  it  does  de- 
pend on  the  Big  Throat.  He  must  reach  here 
in  time." 

"  God  grant  that  he  may !  " 

"  In  that  case,  Father,  I  look  for  a  delay. 
Unless  his  heart  has  hardened  rapidly,  he  still 
thinks  of  me.  Together  we  will  go  to  him, 
and  ask  a  hearing  in  the  war  council." 

"  Oratory  will  not  release  us,  I  fear,  M'sieu." 

"  We  shall  not  ask   to  be  released,  Father. 


i94  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Don't  you  understand  ?  It  is  more  than  that 
we  shall  demand,  —  it  is  peace  with  New 
France,  the  safety  of  the  column — " 

The  priest's  eyes  lighted.  "Do  you  think, 
M'sieu  — " 

"We  can  do  it.  They  have  not  heard  all 
the  truth.  They  do  not  want  a  long  war  which 
will  kill  their  braves  and  destroy  their  homes 
and  their  corn.  It  is  this  attack  on  the  Sene- 
cas  that  has  drawn  them  out." 

"  You  will  tell  them  that  the  Governor  fights 
only  the  Senecas  ? " 

"  More  than  that.  The  La  Grange  affair  has 
stirred  them  up.  It  has  weakened  their  faith 
in  the  Governor,  —  it  has  as  good  as  undone 
all  the  work  of  twenty  years  past.  Our  only 
hope  is  to  reestablish  that  faith." 

"  I  hope  that  we  may,"  said  the  priest,  slowly. 
"  But  they  have  reached  a  state  now  where 
words  alone  will  hardly  suffice.  I  have  tried 
it,  M'sieu.  Since  we  came,  I  have  talked  and 
reasoned  with  them." 

"Well,  Father,  I  am  going  to  try  it.  The 
question  is,  will  the  Governor  make  good  what 
I  shall  have  to  promise?  It  may  be  that  he 
will.  If  not,  —  then  my  life  will  not  be  worth 
a  box  of  tinder  if  I  stray  a  league  from  Quebec 


A   NIGHT  COUNCIL.  i95 

without  a  guard."  He  looked  down  at  the 
daisy  on  his  coat.  "  But  the  maid  will  be  safe, 
Father.  She  will  be  safe." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  they  would  harm  her, 
even  as  it  is." 

"  No,  I  trust  not  —  I  trust  not.  But  we  are 
here,  and  she  is  here ;  and  not  until  I  know 
that  her  journey  is  over  will  my  eyes  close 
easily  at  night." 

"  But  your  plan,  M'sieu,  —  you  have  not 
told  me." 

"Ah,  I  thought  you  understood.  Did  you 
know  about  the  capture  at  Frontenac  when  it 
happened  ?  No  ?  It  was  like  this.  The  Gov- 
ernor sent  word,  with  the  orders  that  came  up 
to  the  fort  in  May,  that  at  the  first  sign  of 
trouble  or  disturbance  with  the  Indians  there, 
d'Orvilliers  should  seize  a  few  score  of  them 
and  send  them  down  the  river  in  chains.  It 
would  be  an  example,  he  said.  I  was  awaiting 
orders,  —  I  had  just  returned  from  the  Huron 
Country  and  Michillimackinac, — and  d'Orvil- 
liers called  me  to  his  rooms  and  showed  me  the 
order.  '  Now,'  he  said,  '  who  in  the  devil  is 
meddling  at  Quebec  ? '  I  did  not  know ;  I  do 
not  know  yet.  But  there  was  the  order.  He 
turned  it  over  to  La  Grange,  with  instructions 


196  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

to  wait  until  some  offence  should  give  him  an 
excuse." 

"  I  know  the  rest,  M'sieu." 

*'  Yes,  yes.  You  have  heard  a  dozen  times, 
—  how  La  Grange  was  drinking,  and  how  he 
lied  to  a  peaceful  hunting  party,  and  drugged 
them,  and  brained  one  poor  devil  with  his  own 
sword.  And  what  could  we  do,  Father?  Right 
or  wrong,  the  capture  was  made.  It  was  too 
late  to  release  them,  for  the  harm  was  done. 
If  d'Orvilliers  had  refused  to  carry  out  his 
orders  and  send  them  to  Quebec,  it  would  have 
cost  him  his  commission." 

"  And  you,  M'sieu  ?  " 

"  I  was  the  only  officer  on  detached  service 
at  the  Fort.  D'Orvilliers  could  not  look  me 
in  the  face  when  he  ordered  me  to  take  them." 

"  You  will  tell  them  this  ? " 

"  This  ?  Yes,  and  more.  I  will  pledge  the 
honour  of  New  France  that  La  Grange  shall 
suffer.  The  man  who  has  betrayed  the  Onon- 
dagas  must  be  punished  before  we  can  have 
their  good  faith.  Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

Father  Claude  walked  away  a  few  steps,  and 
then  back,  his  hands  clasped  before  him. 

"  Don't  you  understand,  Father  ?  If  a  wrong 
has  been  done  an  Iroqnois,  it  is  revenge  that 


A   NIGHT  COUNCIL.  197 

will  appease  him.  Very  well.  Captain  la 
Grange  has  wronged  them;  let  them  have 
their  revenge." 

"  Is  that  the  right  view,  M'sieu  ?  " 

"  Not  for  us,  Father,  —  for  you  and  me.  To 
us  it  is  simple  justice.  But  justice,  —  that  is 
not  the  word  with  which  to  reach  an  Indian." 

"  But  it  may  be  that  Captain  la  Grange  is 
in  favour  at  Quebec.  What  then  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  understand  me  yet, 
Father."  Menard  spoke  slowly  and  calmly,. 
"  This  is  not  my  quarrel.  I  can  take  what  my 
life  brings,  and  thank  your  God,  the  while, 
that  I  have  life  at  all.  But  if  by  one  foolish 
act  the  Iroquois  are  to  be  lost  to  France,  while 
I  have  the  word  on  my  tongue  that  will  sef 
all  right,  am  I,  —  well,  would  you  have  me  such 
a  soldier  ? " 

The  priest  was  looking  through  the  leaves 
at  the  firelight.  For  once  he  seemed  to  have 
nothing  to  offer. 

"  It  will  not  be  easy,  Father ;  but  when  was 
a  soldier's  work  easy?  First  I  must  make 
these  Indians  believe  me,  —  and  you  know 
how  hard  that  will  be.  Then  I  must  convince 
Governor  Denonville  that  this  is  his  only 
course;  and  that  will  be  still  harder.  Or,  U 


198  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

they  will  not  release  me,  you  will  be  my  mes« 
senger,  Father,  and  take  the  word.  I  will 
stay  here  until  La  Grange  has  got  his  dues." 

"  Let  us  suppose,"  said  the  priest,  —  "  let  us 
suppose  that  you  did  not  do  this,  that  you  did 
not  take  this  course  against  Captain  la  Grange 
which  will  leave  him  a  marked  man  to  the  Iro- 
quois,  even  if  the  Governor  should  do  nothing." 

"  Then,"  said  Menard,  "  the  rear-guard  at  La 
Famine  will  be  butchered,  and  the  army  of 
New  France  will  be  cut  to  pieces.  That  is 
all." 

"  You  are  sure  of  this  ?  " 

"  It  points  that  way,  Father." 

"Then  let  us  take  another  case.  Suppose 
that  you  succeed  at  the  council,  that  you  are 
released.  Then  if  the  Governor  should  dis- 
claim responsibility,  should  —  " 

"  Then,  Father,  I  will  go  to  La  Grange  and 
make  him  fight  me.  I  mean  to  pledge  my 
word  to  these  chiefs.  You  know  what  that 
means." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  priest,  "  yes."  He  seemed 
puzzled  and  unsettled  by  some  thought  that 
held  his  mind.  He  walked  slowly  about,  look- 
ing at  the  ground.  Menard,  too,  was  restless. 
He  rose  from  the  stone  and  tossed  away  the 


A  NIGHT  COUNCIL.  199 

pebbles  that  had  supported  the  cup,  one  at  a 
time. 

"  They  are  singing  again,"  he  said,  listening 
to  the  droning  chant  that  came  indistinctly 
through  the  dark.  "  One  would  think  they 
would  long  ago  have  been  too  drunk  to  stand. 
How  some  of  these  recruits  the  King  sends  over 
to  us  would  envy  them  their  stomachs." 

The  priest  made  no  reply.  He  did  not  under- 
stand the  impulse  that  led  the  Captain  to  speak 
irrelevantly  at  such  a  moment. 

"  I  suppose  the  doctors  are  dancing  now," 
Menard  continued.  "  It  may  be  that  they  will 
come  here.  If  they  do,  we  shall  have  a  night 
of  it." 

"  We  will  hope  not,  M'sieu." 

"  If  they  should,  Father,  —  well,  it  is  hard  to 
know  just  what  to  do." 

"You  were  thinking  —  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  was  wondering.  If  they  come  here, 
and  let  their  wild  talk  run  away  with  them,  it 
might  be  well  to  fight  them  off  until  morning. 
Maybe  we  could  do  it." 

"  Yes,  it  might  seem  best." 

"  But  if  —  if  the  Big  Throat  should  not  come, 
or  should  have  changed,  then  it  would  have  been 
better  that  I  had  submitted." 


200  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

"You  are  thinking  of  me,  my  son.  You 
must  not.  I  will  not  leave  you  to  go  without 
a  struggle.  I  can  fight,  if  needs  be,  as  well  as 
you.  I  will  do  my  part." 

"  It  is  not  that,  Father.  But  if  we  fight,  and 
the  Big  Throat  does  not  come,  —  there  is  the 
maid.  They  would  not  spare  her  then." 

The  priest  looked  at  the  Captain,  and  in  the 
dim,  uncertain  light  he  saw  something  of  the 
thought  that  lay  behind  those  wearied  eyes. 

"  True,"  he  said ;  "  true." 

Menard  walked  up  and  down,  a  half-dozen 
steps  forward,  a  half-dozen  back,  without  a 
glance  at  the  priest,  who  watched  him  closely. 
Suddenly  he  turned,  and  the  words  that  were 
in  his  mind  slipped  unguarded  from  his  tongue, 
low  and  stern :  — 

"  If  they  come,  Father,  —  if  they  harm  her, 
—  God !  if  they  even  wake  her,  I  will  kill  them." 

Father  Claude  looked  at  him,  but  said  noth- 
ing. They  walked  together  up  and  down ;  then, 
as  if  weary,  they  sat  again  by  the  door. 

"  There  are  some  things  which  I  could  not 
talk  over  with  you,"  said  the  priest,  finally.  "  It 
was  best  that  I  should  not.  And  now  I  hardly 
know  what  is  the  right  thing  for  me  to  do,  or 
to  say." 


A  NIGHT  COUNCIL.  201 

"  What  troubles  you  ?  " 

"  When  you  are  cooler,  it  will  come  to  you. 
For  to-night,  —  until  our  last  moment  of  choice, 
—  I  must  ask  one  favour,  M'sieu.  You  will  not 
decide  on  this  course  until  it  comes  to  the  end. 
You  will  think  of  other  ways  ;  you  will  —  " 

"  What  else  have  I  been  doing,  Father  ? 
There  is  no  other  way." 

"  But  you  will  not  decide  yet  ?  " 

"  No.     We  need  not,  to-night." 

The  priest  seemed  relieved. 

"  M'sieu,"  came  in  a  low  voice  from  the  dark- 
ness within  the  hut,  "  may  I  not  sit  with 
you  ? " 

"You  are  awake,  Mademoiselle?  You  have 
not  been  sleeping  ?  " 

"  No,  I  could  not.  I  —  I  have  not  heard  you, 
M'sieu,  —  I  have  not  listened.  But  I  wanted 
to  very  much.  I  have  only  my  thoughts,  and 
they  are  not  the  best  of  company  to-night." 

"  Come."  Menard  rose  and  got  one  of  the 
priest's  blankets,  folding  it  and  laying  it  on  the 
ground  against  the  wall.  "  I  fear  that  we  may 
be  no  better  than  the  thoughts ;  but  such  as  we 
are,  we  are  at  the  service  of  Mademoiselle." 

She  sat  by  them,  and  leaned  back,  letting  her 
hands  fall  into  her  lap.  Menard  was  half  in  the 


202  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

shadow,  and  he  could  let  his  eyes  linger  on  her 
face.  It  was  a  sad  face  now,  worn  by  the  haunt- 
ing fears  that  the  night  had  brought, — fears  that 
had  not  held  their  substance  in  the  sunlight; 
but  the  eyes  were  still  bright.  Even  at  this 
moment  she  had  not  forgotten  to  catch  up 
the  masses  of  hair  that  were  struggling  to  be 
free;  and  there  was  a  touch  of  neatness  about 
her  torn  dress  that  the  hardships  of  the  journey 
and  the  dirt  and  discomforts  of  an  Indian  shelter 
had  not  been  able  to  take  away.  They  all  three 
sat  without  talking,  watching  the  sparks  from 
the  fire  and  the  tips  of  flame  that  now  and  then 
reached  above  the  huts. 

"  How  strange  their  song  is,  M'sieu." 

"  Yes.  They  will  keep  it  up  all  night.  If  we 
were  nearer,  you  would  see  that  as  soon  as  a 
brave  is  exhausted  with  the  dancing  and  sing- 
ing, another  will  rush  in  to  take  his  place. 
Sometimes  they  fall  fainting,  and  do  not  re- 
cover for  hours." 

"  I  saw  a  dance  once,  at  home.  The  Ottawas 
—  there  were  but  a  few  of  them  —  had  a  war- 
dance.  It  seemed  to  be  just  for  amusement." 

"They  enjoy  it.  It  is  not  uncommon  for 
them  to  dance  for  a  day  when  there  is  no  hunt 
to  occupy  them." 


A  NIGHT  COUNCIL.  203 

Father  Claude  had  been  silent.  Now  he  rose 
and  walked  slowly  away,  leaving  them  to  talk 
together.  They  could  see  him  moving  about 
with  bowed  head. 

"  The  Father  is  sad,  M'sieu." 

"  Yes.     But  it  is  not  for  himself." 

"  Does  he  fear  now  ?  Does  he  not  think 
that  the  Big  Throat  will  come  ? " 

"  I  think  he  will  come." 

The  maid  looked  down  at  her  clasped  hands. 
Menard  watched  her,  —  the  firelight  was  danc- 
ing on  her  face  and  hair,  —  and  again  the  dan- 
ger seemed  to  slip  away,  the  chant  and  the  fire 
to  be  a  part  of  some  mad  dream  that  had  car- 
ried him  in  a  second  from  Quebec  to  this  deep- 
shadowed  spot,  and  had  set  this  maid  before 
him. 

"  You  are  wearing  the  daisy,  Mademoiselle." 

She  looked  up,  half-startled  at  the  change  in 
his  voice.  Then  her  eyes  dropped  again. 

"  See,"  he  continued,  "  so  am  I.  Is  it  not 
strange  that  we  should  be  here,  you  and  I. 
And  yet,  when  I  first  saw  you,  I  thought  —  " 

"  You  thought,  M'sieu  ?  " 

Menard  laughed  gently.  "  I  could  not  tell 
you,  without  telling  you  what  I  think  now,  and 
that  would  —  be  —  " 


204  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

He  spoke  half  playfully,  and  waited ;  but  she 
did  not  reply. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  that  has  come  to 
me.  It  is  not  like  me.  Or  it  may  be  that  the 
soldier,  all  these  years,  has  not  been  me.  Would 
it  not  be  strange  if  I  were  but  now  to  find  my- 
self, —  or  if  you  were  to  find  me,  Mademoiselle  ? 
If  it  is  true,  if  this  is  what  I  have  waited  so 
long  to  find,  it  would  be  many  years  before  I 
could  repay  you  for  bringing  it  to  me,  —  it 
would  be  a  long  lifetime." 

Again  he  waited,  and  still  she  was  silent. 
Then  he  talked  on,  as  madly  now  as  on  the 
night  of  their  capture,  when  he  had  fought, 
shouting,  musket  and  knife  in  hand,  at  the 
water's  edge.  But  this  was  another  madness. 

"  It  is  such  a  simple  thing.  Until  you  came 
out  here  under  the  trees  my  mind  was  racked 
with  the  troubles  about  us.  But  now  you  are 
here,  and  I  do  not  care,  —  no,  not  if  this 
were  to  be  my  last  night,  if  to-morrow  the) 
should  —  "  She  made  a  nervous  gesture,  but 
he  went  on. 

"  You  see  it  is  you,  Mademoiselle,  who  come 
into  my  life,  and  then  all  the  rest  goes  out." 

"  Don't,"  she  said  brokenly.     "  Don't." 

Father   Claude   came   slowly    toward    them. 


A   NIGHT  COUNCIL.  205 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are  not  too 
wearied,  I  wish  to  talk  with  you." 

She  rose  with  an  air  of  relief  and  joined  him. 
Menard  watched  them,  puzzled.  He  could 
hear  the  priest  speaking  in  low,  even  tones ; 
and  then  the  maid's  voice,  deep  with  emo- 
tion. Finally  they  came  back,  and  she  went 
hurriedly  into  the  hut  without  a  glance  at 
the  soldier,  who  had  risen  and  stood  by  the 
door. 

"Come,  M'sieu,  let  us  walk." 

Menard  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  but 
walked  with  him. 

"  It  is  about  the  speech  to  the  council  —  and 
Captain  la  Grange.  It  may  be  that  you  are 
right,  M'sieu." 

"  Right  ?     I  do  not  understand." 

"  It  was  but  a  moment  ago  that  we  talked 
of  it." 

"  Yes,  I  have  not  forgotten.  But  what  do 
you  mean  now  ?  " 

"  You  promised  me  to  wait  before  deciding. 
It  may  be  that  I  was  wrong.  If  you  are  to 
make  the  speech,  you  will  need  to  prepare  it 
carefully.  There  is  none  too  much  time." 

"Yes,"  said  Menard.  Then  suddenly  he 
stopped  and  took  the  priest's  arm.  "  I  did 


2o6  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

not  think,  Father;  I  did  not  understand. 
What  a  fool  I  am  ! " 

"  No,  no,  M'sieu." 

"  You  have  talked  with  her.  He  is  her 
cousin,  and  yet  it  did  not  come  to  me.  It 
will  pain  her." 

"Yes,"  said  Father  Claude,  slowly,  "it  will 
pain  her.  But  I  have  been  thinking.  I  fear 
that  you  are  right.  It  has  passed  beyond  the 
simple  matter  of  our  own  lives ;  now  it  is  New 
France  that  must  be  thought  of.  You  have 
said  that  it  was  Captain  la  Grange's  treachery 
that  first  angered  the  Onondagas.  We  must 
lay  this  before  them.  If  his  punishment  will 
satisfy  them,  will  save  the  rear-guard,  why  then, 
my  son,  it  is  our  duty." 

They  paced  back  and  forth  in  silence, 
tyfenard's  heavy  breathing  and  his  quick 
glances  toward  the  hut  told  the  priest  some- 
thing of  the  struggle  that  was  going  on  in  his 
mind.  Suddenly  he  said :  — 

"  I  will  go  to  her,  Father.  I  will  tell  her.  I 
cannot  pledge  myself  to  this  act  if  —  if  she  —  " 

"  No,  M'sieu,  you  must  not ;  I  have  told  her. 
She  understands.  And  she  has  begged  me 
to  ask  you  not  to  speak  with  her.  She  has  a 
brave  heart,  but  she  cannot  see  you  now." 


A   NIGHT  COUNCIL.  207 

"  She  asked  you,  —  "  said  the  Captain,  slowly. 
"  She  asked  you  —  I  cannot  think.  I  do  not 
know  what  to  say." 

The  priest  quietly  walked  back  to  the  stone 
by  the  door,  and  left  the  soldier  to  fight  out  the 
battle  alone.  It  was  half  an  hour  before  he 
came  back  and  stood  before  Father  Claude. 

"  Well,  M'sieu  ?  " 

Menard  spoke  shortly,  "  Yes,  Father,  you  are 
right." 

That  was  all,  but  it  told  the  priest  that  the 
matter  had  been  finally  settled.  He  had  seen 
the  look  in  the  Captain's  eyes  when  the  truth 
had  come  to  him  ;  and  he  knew  now  what  he  had 
not  dreamed  before,  that  the  soldier's  heart 
had  gone  out  to  this  maid,  and  now  he  must 
set  his  hand  against  one  of  her  own  blood. 
The  Father  knew  that  he  would  do  it,  would 
fight  La  Grange  to  the  end.  A  word  was  trem- 
bling on  his  tongue,  but  as  he  looked  at  the 
seamed  face  before  him,  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  add  a  deeper  sorrow  to  that  already 
stamped  there. 

"  You  must  help  me  with  the  speech,  Father. 
My  wits  are  not  at  their  best,  I  fear." 

"Willingly,  M'sieu.  And  the  presents, — 
we  must  think  of  that." 


2o8  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  True.  We  have  not  the  wampum  collars. 
It  must  be  something  of  great  value  that  will  take 
their  place.  You  know  how  much  tradition 
means  to  these  people.  Of  course  I  have  noth- 
ing. But  you  —  you  have  your  bale.  And  Made- 
moiselle —  together  you  should  find  something." 

"  I  fear  that  I  have  little.  My  blankets  and 
my  altar  they  would  not  value.  One  moment — " 
He  stepped  to  the  door,  and  spoke  softly,  "  Made- 
moiselle." 

"  Yes,  Father."  She  stood  in  the  doorway, 
wearily.  It  was  plain  that  she  had  been  weep- 
ing, but  she  was  not  ashamed. 

"  We  shall  need  your  help,  Mademoiselle. 
Anything  in  your  bale  that  would  please  the 
chiefs  must  be  used." 

She  was  puzzled. 

"  It  is  the  custom,"  continued  the  priest,  "  at 
every  council.  To  the  Indians  a  promise  is  not 
given,  a  statement  is  not  true,  a  treaty  is  not 
binding,  unless  there  is  a  present  for  each  clause. 
We  have  much  at  stake,  and  we  must  give  what 
we  have." 

"  Certainly,  Father." 

She  stepped  back  into  the  darkness,  and  they 
could  hear  her  dragging  the  bundle.  Menard 
sprang  to  help. 


A   NIGHT  COUNCIL.  209 

"  Mademoiselle,  where  are  you  ? " 

"  Here,  M'sieu." 

He  walked  toward  the  sound  with  his  hands 
spread  before  him.  One  hand  rested  on  her 
shoulder,  where  she  stooped  over  the  bale.  She 
did  not  shrink  from  his  touch.  For  a  moment 
he  stood,  struggling  with  a  mad  impulse  to  take 
her  slender  figure  in  his  arms,  to  hold  her  where 
a  thousand  Indians  could  not  harm  her  save  by 
taking  his  own  strong  life ;  to  tell  her  what  made 
this  moment  more  to  him  than  all  the  stern 
years  of  the  past.  It  may  be  that  she  under- 
stood, for  she  was  motionless,  almost  breathless. 
But  in  a  moment  he  was  himself. 

"  I  will  take  it,"  he  said. 

He  stooped,  took  up  the  bundle,  and  carried 
it  outside.  She  followed  to  the  doorway. 

"  You  will  look,  Mademoiselle." 

She  nodded,  and  knelt  by  the  bundle,  while 
the  two  men  waited. 

"  There  is  little  here,  M'sieu.  I  brought  only 
what  was  necessary.  Here  is  a  comb.  Would 
that  please  them  ? " 

She  reached  back  to  them,  holding  out  a  high 
tortoise-shell  comb.  They  took  it  and  examined 
it 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  said  Menard. 


210  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Yes ;  my  mother  gave  it  to  me." 

"  Perhaps,  Mademoiselle,  —  perhaps  there  is 
something  else,  something  that  would  do  as  well." 

"  How  many  should  you  have,  M'sieu  ?  " 

"  Five,  I  had  planned.  There  will  be  five 
words  in  the  speech." 

"  Words  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  To  the  Iroquois  each  argument  is  a  '  word.' " 

"  I  have  almost  nothing  else,  not  even  clothing 
of  value.  Wait  —  here  is  a  small  coat  of  seal." 

"  And  you,  Father  ?  "  asked  Menard. 

"  I  have  a  book  with  highly  coloured  pictures, 
M'sieu,  — '  The  Ceremonies  of  the  Mass  applied 
to  the  Passion  of  Our  Lord.' " 

"  Splendid  !     Have  you  nothing  else  ?  " 

"  I  fear  not." 

Menard  turned  to  the  maid,  who  was  still  on 
her  knees  by  the  open  bundle,  looking  up  at  them. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  we  must  take  your  coat  and 
the  comb,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sorry." 

She  answered  in  a  low  tone,  but  firmly:  "  You 
know,  M'sieu,  that  it  would  hurt  me  to  do  noth- 
ing. It  hurts  me  to  do  so  little/' 

"  Thank  you,  Mademoiselle.  Well,  Father, 
we  must  use  our  wits.  It  may  be  that  four 
words  will  be  enough,  but  I  cannot  use  fewer. 
We  have  but  three  presents." 


A   NIGHT  COUNCIL.  211 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  priest,  "  yes.''  He  walked 
slowly  by  them,  and  about  in  a  circle,  repeating 
the  word.  The  maid  leaned  back  and  watched 
him,  wondering.  He  paused  before  the  Captain 
and  seemed  about  to  speak.  Then  abruptly  he 
went  into  the  hut,  and  they  could  hear  him 
moving  within.  Menard  and  the  maid  looked 
at  each  other,  the  soldier  smiling  quietly.  He 
understood. 

Father  Claude  came  out  holding  the  portrait 
of  Catharine,  the  Lily  of  the  Onondagas,  in  his 
hands. 

"  It  may  be  that  this  could  be  used  for  the 
fourth  present,"  he  said. 

Menard  took  it  without  a  word,  and  laid  it 
on  the  ground  by  the  fur  coat.  The  maid 
looked  at  it  curiously.  , 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  picture,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle,"  the  Captain  replied. 
"  It  is  the  portrait  of  an  Onondaga  maiden 
who  is  to  them,  and  to  the  French,  almost  a 
saint.  They  will  prize  this  above  all  else." 

The  maid  raised  it,  and  looked  at  the 
strangely  clad  figure.  Father  Claude  quietly 
walked  away,  but  Menard  went  after  and  gripped 
his  hand. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE    BIG   THROAT    SPEAKS. 

TPHE  light  of  the  rising  sun  struggled  through 
the  mist  that  lay  on  the  Onondaga  Valley. 
The  trees  came  slowly  out  of  the  gray  air,  like 
ships  approaching  through  a  fog.  As  the  sun 
rose  higher,  each  leaf  glistened  with  dew.  The 
grass  was  wet  and  shining. 

Menard  had  seized  a  few  hours  of  sleep.  He 
awoke  with  the  first  beam  of  yellow  light,  and 
rose  from  his  bed  on  the  packed,  beaten  ground 
before  the  door.  Father  Claude  was  sitting  on 
a  log,  at  a  short  distance,  with  bowed  head. 
The  Captain  stretched  his  stiff  limbs,  and 
walked  slowly  about  until  the  priest  looked 
up. 

"  Good  morning,  Father." 

"  Good  morning,  M'sieu." 

"  It  was  a  selfish  thought  that  led  me  to 
choose  the  earlier  watch.  These  last  hours 
are  the  best  for  sleeping." 

212 


THE   BIG  THROAT  SPEAKS.  213 

"  No,  I  have  rested  well." 

"  And  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  no  sound.  I  think  that  she 
still  sleeps." 

"  Softly,  then.  There  has  been  no  disturb- 
ance ? " 

"  None.  The  singing  has  died  down  dur- 
ing the  last  hour.  There,  you  can  hear  it, 
M'sieu." 

"  Yes.  But  it  is  only  a  few  voices.  It  must 
be  that  the  others  are  sleeping  off  the  liquor. 
They  will  soon  awaken." 

"  Listen." 

A  musket  was  fired,  and  another. 

"  That  is  the  signal." 

The  song,  which  one  group  after  another  had 
taken  up  all  through  the  night,  rose  again  and 
grew  in  volume  as  one  at  a  time  the  sleepers 
aroused  and  joined  the  dance.  The  only  sign 
of  the  fire  was  a  pillar  of  thin  smoke  that  rolled 
straight  upward  in  the  still  air. 

"  Father,"  said  Menard,  "  are  the  guards 
about  ? " 

"  I  have  not  seen  them.  I  suppose  they  are 
wandering  within  call." 

"  Then,  quickly,  before  we  are  seen,  help  me 
with  this  log." 


2i4  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  I  do  not  understand,  M'sieu." 

"  Into  the  hut  with  it,  and  the  others,  there. 
If  a  chance  does  come,  —  well,  it  may  be  that 
we  shall  yet  be  reduced  to  holding  the  hut. 
These  will  serve  to  barricade  the  door." 

They  were  not  disturbed  while  they  rolled 
the  short  logs  within  and  piled  them  at  one 
side  of  the  door,  where  they  could  not  be  seen 
from  the  path. 

"  Quietly,  Father,"  whispered  the  Captain. 
He  knew  that  the  maid  lay  sleeping,  back 
among  the  shadows.  "  And  the  presents,  — 
you  have  packed  them  away  ?  " 

"  In  my  bundle,  M'sieu.  They  will  not  be 
harmed." 

They  returned  to  the  open  air,  and  looked 
about  anxiously  for  signs  of  a  movement  toward 
the  hut;  but  the  irregular  street  was  silent. 
Here  and  there,  from  the  opening  in  the  roof 
of  some  low  building  of  bark  and  logs,  rose  a 
light  smoke. 

"  They  are  all  at  the  dance,"  said  Menard. 
His  memory  supplied  the  picture :  the  great 
fire,  now  sunk  to  heaps  of  gray  ashes,  spread 
over  the  ground  by  the  feet  of  those  younger 
brakes  who  had  wished  to  show  their  hardi- 
hood by  treading  barefoot  on  the  embers ;  the 


THE   BIG  THROAT  SPEAKS.  215 

circle  of  grunting  figures,  leaning  forward, 
hatchet  and  musket  in  hand,  moving  slowly 
around  the  fire  with  a  shuffling,  hopping  step ; 
the  outer  circle  of  sitting  or  lying  figures,  men, 
women,  and  children,  drunken,  wanton,  quarrel- 
some, dreaming  of  the  blood  that  should  be  let 
before  the  sun  had  gone ;  and  at  one  side  the 
little  group  of  old  men,  beating  their  drums  of 
wood  and  skin  with  a  rhythm  that  never  slack- 
ened. 

The  song  grew  louder,  and  broke  at  short 
intervals  into  shouts  and  cries,  punctuated  with 
musket-shots. 

"  They  are  coming,  M'sieu." 

The  head  of  the  line,  still  stepping  in  the 
slow  movement  of  the  dance,  appeared  at  some 
distance  up  the  path.  The  Long  Arrow  was 
in  front,  in  full  war-paint,  and  wearing  the  col- 
lar of  wampum  beads.  Beside  him  was  the 
Beaver.  The  line  advanced,  two  and  two, 
steadily  toward  the  lodge  of  the  white  men. 

Menard  leaned  against  the  door-post  and 
watched  them.  His  figure  was  relaxed,  his 
face  composed. 

"  Here  are  the  doctors,  Father." 

A  group  of  medicine  men,  wildly  clad  in 
skins  of  beasts  and  reptiles,  with  the  heads  of 


2i6  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

animals  on  their  shoulders,  came  running  along 
beside  the  line,  leaping  high  in  the  air,  and 
howling. 

Menard  turned  to  the  priest.  "  Father,  which 
shall  it  be,  —  shall  we  fight  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  M'sieu.  We  have  no 
weapons,  and  it  may  be,  yet,  that  the  Big 
Throat  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  And  there  is  the  maid,  M'sieu." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  sunrise  the  quiet 
expression  left  the  Captain's  face.  He  was 
silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said :  — 

"  I  will  go,  Father.  You  must  protect  her. 
If  anything  —  if  they  should  dare  to  touch  her, 
you  will  —  ?  " 

"  I  will  fight  them,  M'sieu." 

"Thank  you."  Menard  held  out  his  hand. 
They  gripped  in  silence,  and  turned  again 
toward  the  Indians,  who  were  now  but  a  hun- 
dred yards  away. 

"  They  will  stop  in  a  moment,"  said  Menard, 
"and  form  for  the  gantlet.  Yes,  —  see,  the 
Long  Arrow  holds  up  his  hands."  He  stood 
irresolute,  looking  at  the  fantastic  picture ;  then 
he  stepped  back  into  the  hut. 

The  maid  lay  in  her  blanket  on  the  bench. 


THE   BIG  THROAT   SPEAKS.  217 

He  stood  over  her,  looking  at  the  peaceful  face 
that  rested  on  her  outstretched  arm.  He  took 
her  hand,  and  said  gently :  — 

"  Mademoiselle." 

She  stirred,  and  slowly  opened  her  eyes ;  she 
did  not  seem  surprised  that  he  should  be  there 
clasping  tightly  her  slender  hand.  He  won- 
dered if  he  had  been  in  her  dreams. 

"  Good-bye,  Mademoiselle." 

"  You  —  you  are  going,  M'sieu  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  half-dazed  eyes. 
She  was  not  yet  fully  awake. 

"  You  must  not  fear,"  he  said.  "  They  can- 
not hurt  you.  You  will  soon  be  safe  at  —  at 
Frontenac." 

She  was  beginning  to  understand.  Then  all 
at  once  the  light  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she 
clung  to  his  arm,  which  was  still  wet  with  the 
dew. 

"You  are  not  going?  They  will  not  take 
you  ?  Oh,  M'sieu,  I  cannot  —  you  must  not ! " 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  he  bent  down 
and  kissed  her  forehead.  Then,  with  his  free 
hand  he  unclasped  her  fingers  and  went  away. 
At  the  door  he  turned.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
bench,  gazing  after  him  with  a  look  that  he 


2i8  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

never  forgot.  For  all  of  the  unhappiness,  the 
agony,  that  came  to  him  from  those  eyes,  it 
was  with  a  lighter  heart  that  he  faced  the 
warriors  who  rushed  to  seize  him. 

Every  brave,  woman,  and  child  that  the  vil- 
lage could  supply  was  in  the  double  line  that 
stretched  away  from  a  point  on  the  path  not 
a  hundred  yards  distant  to  the  long  council 
house,  which  stood  on  a  slight  rise  of  ground. 
They  were  armed  with  muskets,  clubs,  knives, 
—  with  any  instrument  which  could  bruise  or 
mutilate  the  soldier  as  he  passed,  and  yet  leave 
life  in  him  for  the  harder  trials  to  follow.  Five 
warriors,  muskets  in  hand,  had  come  to  the  hut. 
They  sprang  at  Menard  as  he  stepped  out 
through  the  doorway,  striking  him  roughly  and 
holding  his  elbows  behind  his  back. 

A  shout  went  up  from  the  waiting  lines,  and 
muskets  and  clubs  were  waved  in  the  air.  The 
Captain  stepped  forward  briskly  with  head  erect, 
scorning  to  glance  at  the  braves  who  walked  on 
either  side.  He  knew  that  they  would  not  kill 
him  in  the  gantlet ;  they  would  save  him  for 
the  fire.  He  had  passed  through  this  once,  he 
could  do  it  again,  conscious  that  every  moment 
brought  nearer  the  chance  of  a  rescue  by  the 
Big  Throat.  Perhaps  twenty  paces  had  been 


THE   BIG   THROAT   SPEAKS.  219 

covered,  and  his  guardians  were  prodding  him 
and  trying  to  force  him  into  a  run,  when  he 
heard  a  shout  from  the  priest,  and  then  the 
sounds  of  a  struggle  at  the  hut.  He  turned  his 
head,  but  a  rude  hand  knocked  it  back.  Again 
he  heard  the  priest's  voice,  and  this  time,  with 
it,  a  woman's  scream. 

The  Captain  hesitated  for  a  second.  The 
warriors  prodded  him  again,  and  before  they 
could  raise  their  arms  he  had  jerked  loose, 
snatched  a  musket  from  one,  and  swinging  it 
around  his  head,  sent  the  two  to  the  ground, 
one  with  a  cracked  skull.  Before  those  in  the 
lines  could  fairly  see  what  had  happened,  he 
was  running  toward  the  hut  with  two  captured 
muskets  and  a  knife.  In  front  of  the  hut  the 
three  other  Indians  were  struggling  with  Father 
Claude,  who  was  righting  in  a  frenzy,  and  the 
maid.  She  was  hanging  back,  and  one  redskin 
had  crushed  her  two  wrists  together  in  his  hand 
and  was  dragging  her. 

Menard  was  on  them  with  a  leap.  They  did 
not  see  him  until  a  musket  whirled  about  their 
ears,  and  one  man  fell,  rolling,  at  the  maid's  feet. 

"  Back  into  the  hut ! "  he  said  roughly,  and 
she  obeyed.  As  he  turned  to  aid  the  priest 
he  called  after  her,  "  Pile  up  the  logs,  quick ! " 


220  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

She  understood,  and  with  the  strength  that 
came  with  the  moment,  she  dragged  the  logs 
to  the  door. 

Menard  crushed  down  the  two  remaining 
Indians  as  he  would  have  crushed  wild  beasts, 
without  a  glance  toward  the  mob  that  was  run- 
ning at  him,  without  a  thought  for  the  gash  in 
his  arm,  made  first  by  an  arrow  at  La  Gallette 
and  now  reopened  by  a  knife  thrust.  The 
Father,  too,  was  wounded,  but  still  he  could 
fight.  There  was  but  a  second  more.  The 
Captain  threw  the  four  muskets  into  the  hut, 
and  after  them  the  powder-horns  and  bullet- 
pouches  which  he. had  barely  time  to  strip  from 
the  dead  men.  Then  he  crowded  the  priest 
through  the  opening  above  the  logs,  and  came 
tumbling  after.  Another  second  saw  the  logs 
piled  close  against  the  door,  while  a  shower  of 
bullets  and  arrows  rattled  against  them. 

"  Take  a  musket,  Father.  Now,  fire  to- 
gether! Quick,  the  others!  Can  you  load 
these,  Mademoiselle  ? " 

"  Yes."  She  reached  for  them,  and  poured 
the  powder  down  the  barrels. 

"Not  too  much,  Mademoiselle.  We  may 
run  short." 

"  Yes,  M'sieu." 


THE  BIG  THROAT  SPEAKS.  221 

.  To  miss  a  mark  in  that  solid  mob  would  have 
been  difficult.  The  first  four  shots  brought 
down  three  men,  and  sent  another  limping  away 
with  a  bleeding  foot. 

"  Keep  it  up,  Father !  Don't  wait  an  instant. 
Fast,  Mademoiselle,  fast !  Ah,  there's  one  more. 
See,  they  are  falling  back.  Take  the  other  wall, 
Father.  See  that  they  do  not  come  from  the 
rear." 

The  priest  ran  about  the  hut,  peering  through 
the  chinks. 

"  I  see  nothing,"  he  called. 

"  You  had  better  stay  there,  then.  Keep  a 
close  watch." 

The  maid  laid  two  loaded  muskets  at  the 
Captain's  side. 

"  Can  we  hold  them  off,  M'sieu  ?  " 

His  eye  was  pressed  to  an  opening,  and  he 
did  not  turn. 

"  I  fear  not,  Mademoiselle.  A  few  minutes 
more  may  settle  it.  But  we  can  give  them  a 
fight." 

"  If  they  come  again,  will  you  let  me  shoot, 
M'sieu?" 

He  turned  in  surprise,  and  looked  at  her 
slight  figure. 

"You,  Mademoiselle?" 


222  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Yes ;   I  can  help.     I  have  shot  before." 

He  laughed,  with  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
ment, and  nodded.  Then  they  were  silent.  She 
knelt  by  his  side  and  looked  through  another 
opening.  The  women  and  children  had  re- 
treated well  up  the  path.  The  warriors  were 
crowded  together,  just  out  of  range,  talking  and 
shouting  excitedly.  A  moment  later  a  number 
of  these  slipped  to  the  rear  and  ran  off  between 
the  huts. 

"  What  does  that  mean,  M'sieu  ?  Will  they 
come  around  behind  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Watch  out,  Father.  You  will  hear 
from  them  soon." 

"  Very  well,  M'sieu.  It  will  be  hard.  There 
are  trees  and  bushes  here  for  cover." 

Menard  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  made  no 
reply.  Time  was  all  he  wished. 

"  If  the  Big  Throat  started  with  the  first  light, 
he  should  be  here  before  another  hour,"  he  said 
to  the  maid,  who  was  watching  the  Indians. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied. 

"  Is  there  any  corn  in  the  basket,  Mad- 
emoiselle ? " 

"  I  think  so.     I  had  forgotten." 

"  We  shall  need  it.     Wait ;   I  will  look."      , 

He  got  the  basket,  and  brought  it  to  her. 


THE  BIG  THROAT  SPEAKS.  223 

"There  is  no  time  for  cooking,  but  you  had  bet- 
ter eat  what  you  can.  And  keep  a  close  watch." 

"  Here,  JVTsieu."  She  spread  her  skirt,  and 
he  poured  out  half  of  the  corn. 

"  You  give  me  too  much.     You  must  not." 

He  laughed,  and  crossed  to  the  priest,  saying 
over  his  shoulder :  — 

"  Mademoiselle  is  our  new  recruit.  And  the 
recruit  must  not  complain  of  her  food.  I  can- 
not allow  it." 

The  moments  passed  with  no  sign  of  action 
along  the  line  of  redskins  on  the  path.  They 
were  quieter  since  the  flanking  party  had  started. 
To  Menard  it  was  evident  that  a  plan  had  been 
settled  upon.  In  a  like  position,  a  dozen  French- 
men would  have  stormed  the  hut,  knowing  that 
only  two  or  three  could  fall  before  they  were 
under  the  shelter  of  the  walls ;  but  even  a  large 
force  of  Indians  was  unwilling  to  take  the 
chance. 

"  Father,"  called  the  Captain,  "it  may  be  better 
for  you  to  take  the  doorway.  Mademoiselle 
and  I  will  watch  the  forest." 

"  Very  well,  M'sieu." 

The  exchange  was  made  rapidly. 

"  Will  you  look  out  at  the  sides,  as  well  ? " 
Menard  said  to  her.  "  Keep  moving  about,  and 


234  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

using  all  the  openings.  There  are  too  many 
chances  for  approach  here." 

"  If  I  see  one,  shall  I  shoot,  M'sieu  ? " 

He  smiled.     "  You  had  better  tell  me  first." 

She  stepped  briskly  about,  peering  through 
the  chinks  with  an  alert  eye.  Menard  found  it 
hard  to  keep  his  own  watch,  so  eager  were  his 
eyes  to  watch  her.  But  he  turned  resolutely 
toward  the  woods. 

"  M'sieu  !  "  she  whispered.  They  had  been 
silent  for  a  long  time.  "  To  the  left  in  the 
bushes !  It  looks  like  a  head." 

"  Can  you  make  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes.     It  is  a  head.     May  I  shoot  ?  " 

Menard  nodded  without  looking.  She  rested 
her  musket  in  the  opening  between  two  logs, 
and  fired  quickly. 

"  Did  you  hit  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

She  was  breathless  with  excitement,  but  she 
reloaded  at  once.  A  moment  later  Menard 
fired,  and  then  the  priest. 

"  On  all  sides,  eh  ? "  the  Captain  muttered. 
He  called  to  the  others :  "  Waste  no  powder. 
Shoot  only  when  you  are  sure  of  hitting.  They 
will  fall  back  again.  Two  dead  Indians  will 
discourage  the  wildest  charge." 


THE   BIG   THROAT   SPEAKS.  225 

The  firing  went  on  at  intervals,  but  still  the 
warriors  kept  at  it,  creeping  up  from  bush  to 
bush  and  tree  to  tree.  Menard's  face  grew  more 
serious  as  the  time  went  by.  He  began  to 
realize  that  the  Long  Arrow  was  desperate,  that 
he  was  determined  on  vengeance  before  the 
other  chiefs  could  come.  It  had  been  a  typical 
savage  thought  that  had  led  him  to  bring  Me- 
nard  to  this  village,  where  he  had  once  lived, 
rather  than  to  the  one  in  which  the  chief  held 
greater  permanent  authority ;  the  scheme  was 
too  complete  and  too  near  its  end  for  delay  or 
failure  to  be  considered.  Still  the  attacking 
party  drew  nearer,  swelled  every  moment  by  a 
new  group.  Then  Menard  saw  their  object. 
They  would  soon  be  near  enough  to  dash  in 
close  to  the  wall,  where  their  very  nearness 
would  disable  the  white  men's  muskets. 

"  Work  fast !  "  he  said  suddenly.  "  They 
must  not  get  nearer ! " 

"  Yes,"  panted  the  maid.  Her  shoulder  was 
bruised  by  the  heavy  musket,  her  arms  ached 
with  the  quick  ramming  and  lifting,  but  she 
loaded  and  fired  as  rapidly  as  she  could. 

"  Father,"  called  the  Captain.  "  Quick !  come 
here.  They  are  too  many  for  me ! " 

The  priest  ran  across  the  floor,  half  blinded 


226  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

by  the  smoke,  cocking  his  musket  as  he  came. 
"  Where,  M'sieu  ?  " 

"  There  —  at  the  oak !  They  are  preparing 
for  a  rush ! " 

He  fired,  at  the  last  word,  and  one  warrior 
sprawled  on  his  face.  The  priest  followed. 

"  That  will  check  them.  Now  back  to  the 
door!" 

Father  Claude  turned.  The  light  was  dim 
and  the  smoke  heavy.  His  eyes  smarted  and 
blurred, so  that  he  heard,  rather  than  saw,  the  logs 
come  crashing  back  into  the  hut.  Menard  heard 
it  also ;  and  together  the  two  men  dashed  for- 
ward. They  met  the  rush  of  Indians  with 
blows  that  could  not  be  stayed,  but  there  was  a 
score  pushing  behind  the  few  who  had  entered. 
Slowly,  the  two  backed  across  the  hut.  The 
stock  of  Menard's  musket  broke  short  off  against 
the  head  of  the  Beaver.  His  foot  struck  an- 
other, and  he  snatched  it  up  and  fought  on. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  called,  "  where  are  you  ? " 

"  Here,  M'sieu  !  " 

The  voice  was  behind  him.  Then  he  felt  a 
weight  on  his  shoulder.  The  weaned  maid,  for 
want  of  another  rest  for  her  musket,  fired  past 
his  face  straight  into  the  dark  mass  of  Indians. 
She  tried  to  reload,  but  Menard  was  swept  back 


THE   BIG  THROAT  SPEAKS.  227 

against  her.  With  one  arm  he  caught  and  held 
her  tight  against  him,  swinging  the  musket  with 
his  free  hand.  She  clung  to  him,  hardly  breath- 
ing. They  reached  the  rear  wall.  One  tall 
warrior  bounded  forward  and  struck  the  musket 
from  his  hand.  That  was  the  end  of  the  strug- 
gle. They  were  torn  apart,  and  dragged  roughly 
out  into  the  blinding  sunlight. 

Among  the  Iroquois,  the  torture  was  a  reli- 
gious rite,  which  nothing,  once  it  was  begun, 
could  hasten.  It  may  have  been  that  the 
younger  warriors  would  have  rushed  upon  the 
captives  to  kill  them  ;  but  if  so,  their  elders  held 
them  back.  The  long  lines  formed  again,  and 
the  doctors  ran  about  the  little  group  before  the 
hut  door,  leaping  and  singing.  Menard  lay  on 
his  face,  held  down  by  three  warriors.  He  tried 
to  turn  his  head  to  see  what  had  been  done  with 
the  maid,  but  could  not.  He  would  have  called 
to  her,  but  to  make  a  sound  now  would  be  to 
his  captors  an  admission  of  weakness. 

A  great  clamour  came  from  the  lines.  Menard 
wondered  at  the  delay.  He  heard  a  movement 
a  few  yards  away.  Warriors  were  grunting, 
and  feet  shuffled  on  the  ground.  He  heard  the 
priest  say,  in  a  calm  voice,  "  Courage,  Mademoi- 
selle " ;  and  for  a  moment  he  struggled  desper- 


228  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

ately.  Then,  realizing  his  mistake,  he  lay  quiet. 
When  at  last  he  was  jerked  to  his  feet,  he  saw 
that  the  priest  and  the  maid  had  been  forced  to 
take  the  two  first  places  in  the  line.  The  maid 
was  struggling  in  the  grasp  of  two  braves,  one 
of  whom  made  her  hold  a  war  club  by  closing 
his  own  hand  over  hers.  Menard  understood ; 
his  friends  were  to  strike  the  first  blows. 

The  guards  tried  to  drag  him  forward,  but 
he  went  firmly  with  them,  smiling  scornfully. 
There  was  a  delay,  as  the  line  was  reached,  for 
the  maid  could  not  be  made  to  hold  the  club. 
Another  man  dropped  out  of  the  line  to  aid 
the  two  who  held  her. 

"  Strike  me,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Menard. 
"  It  is  best." 

She  shook  her  head.    Father  Claude  spoke :  — 

"  M'sieu  is  right." 

It  was  then  that  she  first  looked  at  the  Cap- 
tain. When  she  saw  the  straight  figure  and 
the  set  face,  a  sense  of  her  own  weakness  came 
to  her,  and  she,  too,  straightened.  Menard 
stepped  forward ;  and  raising  the  club  she  let 
it  fall  lightly  on  his  shoulders.  A  shout  went 
up. 

"  Hard,  Mademoiselle,  hard, "  he  said.  "  You 
must." 


THE   BIG  THROAT  SPEAKS,  229 

She  pressed  her  lips  together,  closed  her 
eyes,  and  swung  the  club  with  all  her  strength. 
Then  her  muscles  gave  way,  and  she  sank  to 
the  ground,  not  daring  to  look  after  the  Cap- 
tain as  he  passed  on  between  the  two  rows  of 
savages.  She  heard  the  shouts  and  the  wild 
cries,  but  dimly,  as  if  they  came  from  far  away. 
The  confusion  grew  worse,  and  then  died 
down.  From  screaming  the  voices  dropped 
into  excited  argument.  She  did  not  know 
what  it  meant,  —  not  until  Father  Claude  bent 
over  her  and  spoke  gently. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  whispered,  not  looking 
up.  "  What  have  they  done  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     The  Big  Throat  'has  come." 

She  raised  her  eyes  helplessly. 

"He  has  come? " 

"  Yes.  I  must  go  back.  Take  heart,  Mad- 
emoiselle." 

He  hurried  away  and  slipped  through  the 
crowd  that  had  gathered  about  Menard  and 
the  chief.  She  sat  in  a  little  heap  on  the 
ground,  not  daring  to  feel  relieved,  wondering 
what  would  come  next.  She  could  not  see  the 
Captain,  but  as  the  other  voices  dropped  lower 
and  lower,  she  could  catch  now  and  then  a 
note  of  his  voice.  In  a  few  moments,  the  war- 


23o  THE  ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

riors  who  were  pressing  close  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  crowd  were  pushed  aside,  and  he  came 
out.  She  looked  at  him,  then  at  the  ground, 
shuddering,  for  there  was  blood  on  his  fore- 
head. Even  when  he  stood  over  her  she  could 
not  look  up  or  speak. 

"There  is  hope  now,  Mademoiselle.  He  is 
here." 

"Yes  —  Father  Claude  told  me.  Is  —  are 
you  to  be  released  ? " 

"  Hardly  that,  but  we  shall  at  least  have  a 
little  time.  And  I  hope  to  get  a  hearing  at 
the  council." 

"  He  will  let  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  asked  him  yet."  He  sat  beside 
her,  wearily.  "  There  will  be  time  for  that.  He 
is  talking  now  with  the  Long  Arrow  and  the 
old  warriors.  He  is  not  fond  of  the  Long 
Arrow."  In  the  excitement  he  had  not  seen 
that  she  was  limp  and  exhausted,  but  now  he 
spoke  quickly,  "  They  have  hurt  you,  Madem- 
oiselle ? " 

"No,  I  am  not  hurt.  But  you — your 
head  —  " 

"  Only  a  bruise."  He  drew  his  sleeve  across 
his  forehead.  "  I  had  rather  a  bad  one  in  the 
arm." 


THE   BIG  THROAT  SPEAKS.  231 

He  rolled  up  his  sleeve  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way.  Her  eyes  filled. 

"  Oh,  M'sieu,  you  did  not  tell  me.  I  can 
help  you.  Wait,  I  will  be  back." 

She  rose,  and  started  toward  the  spring,  but 
he  sprang  to  her  side. 

"  You  must  not  trouble.  It  is  not  bad. 
There  will  be  time  for  this." 

"  No.     Come  with  me  if  you  will." 

She  ran  with  nervous  steps ;  and  he  strode 
after.  At  the  side  of  the  bubbling  pool  she 
knelt,  and  looked  up  impatiently. 

"  It  will  not  do  to  let  this  go,  M'sieu.  Can 
you  roll  your  sleeve  higher  ? " 

He  tried,  but  the  heavy  cloth  was  stiff. 

"  If  you  will  take  off  the  coat  - 

He  unlaced  it  at  the  breast,  and  drew  it  off. 
She  took  his  wrist,  and  plunged  his  arm  into 
the  pool,  washing  it  with  quick,  gentle  fingers, 
drying  it  on  his  coat.  Then  she  leaned  back, 
half  perplexed,  and  looked  around. 

"What  is  it?" 

"A  cloth.  No,"  —  as  he  reached  for  his 
coat ;  —  "  that  is  too  rough.  Here,  M'sieu,  —  " 
she  tore  a  strip  from  her  skirt,  and  wrapped  it 
around  the  forearm.  "  Hold  it  with  your  other 
hand,  just  a  moment." 


232  THE    ROAD    TO   FRONTENAC. 

She  hurried  to  the  hut,  and  returning  with 
needle  and  thread,  stitched  the  bandage.  Then 
she  helped  him  on  with  his  coat,  and  they 
walked  slowly  to  the  hut. 

"  Where  is  Father  Claude  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  pointed  to  a  thicket  beyond  the  hut. 
There,  kneeling  by  the  body  of  a  dying  Ind- 
ian, was  the  priest,  praying  silently.  He  had 
baptized  the  warrior  with  dew  from  the  leaves 
at  his  side,  and  now  was  claiming  his  soul  for 
the  greater  King  in  whose  service  his  own  life 
had  been  spent. 

The  Captain  sat  beside  the  maid,  their  backs 
to  the  logs,  and  watched  the  shifting  groups 
of  warriors.  He  told  her  of  the  arrival  of  the 
Big  Throat,  and  of  the  confusion  that  resulted. 
Then  for  a  time  they  were  silent,  waiting  for 
the  impromptu  council  to  reach  a  conclusion. 
The  warriors  finally  began  to  drift  away, 
though  the  younger  and  more  curious  ones 
still  hung  about.  A  group  of  braves  came 
slowly  toward  the  hut. 

"  That  is  the  Big  Throat  in  front,"  said  Me- 
nard.  "  The  broad-shouldered  warrior  beside 
him  is  the  Talking  Eagle,  the  best-known  chief 
of  the  clan  of  the  Bear.  •  They  are  almost  here. 
We  had  better  stand.  Are  you  too  tired?" 


THE   BIG   THROAT   SPEAKS.  233 

"  No,  indeed." 

Father  Claude  had  seen  the  group  approach- 
ing, and  he  joined  Menard.  The  Big  Throat 
stood  motionless  and  looked  at  the  Captain. 

"  My  brother,  the  Big  Buffalo,  has  asked 
to  speak  with  the  Big  Throat,"  he  said  at 
length. 

Menard  bowed,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  He  asks  for  his  release,  —  and  for  the 
holy  man  and  the  squaw  ?  " 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  asks  nothing  save  what 
the  chiefs  of  the  Onondagas  would  give  to  a 
chief  taken  in  battle.  The  Long  Arrow  has  lied 
to  the  Big  Buffalo.  He  has  soiled  his  hands 
with  the  blood  of  women  and  holy  Fathers. 
The  Big  Buffalo  was  told  by  Onontio,  whom 
all  must  obey,  to  come  to  the  Onondagas  and 
give  them  his  word.  The  Long  Arrow  was 
impatient.  He  would  not  let  him  journey  in 
peace.  He  wished  to  injure  him;  to  let  his 
blood.  Now  the  Big  Buffalo  is  here.  He  asks 
that  he  may  be  heard  at  the  council,  to  give 
the  chief  the  word  of  Onontio.  That  is  all." 

The  Big  Throat's  face  was  inscrutable.  He 
looked  at  Menard  without  a  word  until  the 
silence  grew  tense,  and  the  maid  caught  her 
breath.  Then  he  said,  with  the  cool,  diplo- 


234  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

matic  tone  that  concealed  whatever  kindness 
or  justice  may  have  prompted  the  words :  — 

"The  Big  Buffalo  shall  be  heard  at  the 
council  to-night.  The  chiefs  of  the  Onon- 
dagas  never  are  deaf  to  the  words  of  Onontio." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE    LONG    HOUSE. 

'"THE  council-house  was  a  hundred  paces  or 
*  more  in  length.  The  frame  was  of  tall 
hickory  saplings  planted  in  the  ground  in  two 
rows,  with  the  tops  bent  over  and  lashed  to- 
gether in  the  form  of  an  arch.  The  building 
was  not  more  than  fifteen  yards  wide.  The 
lower  part  of  the  outer  wall  was  of  logs,  the 
upper  part  and  the  roof  of  bark.  Instead  of  a 
chimney  there  was  a  narrow  opening  in  the 
roof,  extending  the  length  of  the  building. 

A  row  of  smouldering  fires  reached  nearly 
from  end  to  end  of  the  house.  The  smoke 
struggled  upward,  but  failing,  for  the  greater 
part,  to  find  the  outlet  overhead,  remained  in- 
side to  clog  the  air  and  dim  the  eyes.  The 
chiefs  sat  in  a  long  ellipse  in  the  central  part  of 
the  house,  some  sitting  erect  with  legs  crossed, 
others  half  reclining,  while  a  few  lay  sprawling, 
their  chins  resting  on  their  hands.  The  Big 

235 


236  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

Throat  sat  with  the  powerful  chiefs  of  the  nation 
at  one  end.  The  lesser  sachems,  including  the 
Long  Arrow,  sat  each  before  his  own  band  of 
followers.  The  second  circle  was  made  up  of 
the  older  and  better-known  warriors.  Behind 
these,  pressing  close  to  catch  every  word  of  the 
argument,  were  braves,  youths,  women,  and 
children,  mixed  together  indiscriminately.  A 
low  platform  extended  the  length  of  the  build- 
ing against  the  wall  on  each  side,  and  this  held 
another  crowding,  elbowing,  whispering  mass 
of  redskins.  Every  chief  and  warrior,  as  well 
as  most  of  the  women,  held  each  a  pipe  between 
his  teeth,  and  puffed  out  clouds  of  smoke  into 
the  thick  air. 

The  maid's  eyes  smarted  and  blurred  in 
the  smoke.  It  reached  her  throat,  and  she 
coughed. 

"  Lie  down,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Menard. 
"  Breathe  close  to  the  ground  and  it  will  not  be 
so  bad." 

She  hesitated,  looking  at  the  Big  Throat, 
who  sat  with  arms  folded,  proud  and  dignified. 
Then  she  smiled,  and  lay  almost  flat  on  the 
ground,  breathing  in  the  current  of  less  impure 
air  that  passed  beneath  the  smoke.  They  had 
been  placed  in  the  inner  circle,  next  to  the 


THE   LONG   HOUSE.  237 

chiefs  of  the  nations,  where  Menard's  words 
would  have  the  weight  that,  to  the  mind  of  the 
Big  Throat,  was  due  to  a  representative  of  the 
French  Governor,  even  in  time  of  war.  Father 
Claude,  sitting  on  the  left  of  the  maid,  was 
looking  quietly  into  the  fire.  He  had  com- 
mitted the  case  into  the  hands  of  Providence, 
and  he  was  certain  that  the  right  words  would 
be  given  to  the  Captain. 

It  was  nearing  the  close  of  the  afternoon.  A 
beam  of  sunlight  slipped  in  at  one  end  of  the 
roof-opening,  and  slanted  downward,  clearing  a 
shining  way  through  the  smoke.  A  Cayuga 
chief  was  speaking. 

"  The  corn  is  ripening  in  the  fields  about  the 
Onondaga  village.  As  I  came  down  the  hills 
of  the  west  to-day  I  saw  the  green  tops  waving 
in  the  wind,  and  I  was  glad,  for  I  knew  that 
my  brothers  would  feast  in  plenty,  that  their 
Manitous  have  been  kind.  The  Cayugas,  too, 
have  great  fields  of  corn,  and  the  Senecas. 
Their  women  have  worked  faithfully  that  the 
land  might  be  plentiful. 

"  But  a  storm  is  breaking  over  the  cornfields 
of  the  Senecas.  It  is  a  great  cloud  that  has 
come  down  from  the  north,  with  the  flash  of 
fire  and  the  roar  of  thunder,  and  with  hailstones 


238  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

of  lead  that  will  leave  no  stalk  standing.  My 
brothers  know  the  strength  of  the  north  wind. 
They  have  not  forgotten  other  storms  that 
would  have  laid  waste  the  villages  of  the  Sene- 
cas  and  the  Mohawks.  And  they  have  not 
forgotten  their  Manitous,  who  have  whispered 
to  them  when  the  clouds  appeared  in  the  north- 
ern sky,  '  Rise  up,  Mohawks  and  Oneidas  and 
Onondagas  and  Cayugas  and  Senecas,  and 
stand  firmly  against  this  storm,  and  your 
homes  and  your  fields  shall  not  be  destroyed.' " 

The  house  was  silent  with  interest.  The 
maid  raised  her  head  and  watched  the  stolid 
faces  of  the  chiefs  in  the  inner  circle.  Not  an 
expression  changed  from  beginning  to  end  of 
the  speech.  Beyond,  she  could  see  other, 
younger  faces,  some  eager,  some  bitter,  some 
defiant,  some  smiling,  and  all  showing  the 
flush  of  excitement,  —  but  these  grim  old  chiefs 
had  long  schooled  their  faces  to  hide  their 
thoughts.  They  held  their  blankets  close,  and 
puffed  deliberately  at  their  pipes  with  hardly  a 
movement  of  the  lips. 

The  Cayuga  went  on :  — 

"  Messengers  have  come  to  the  Cayugas  from 
their  brothers,  the  Senecas,  telling  of  the  storm 
that  is  rushing  on  them.  The  Cayugas  know 


THE   LONG   HOUSE.  239 

the  hearts  of  the  Five  Nations.  When  the  Mo- 
hawks have  risen  to  defend  their  homes,  the 
hearts  of  the  Cayugas  have  been  warm,  and 
they  have  taken  up  the  hatchet  with  their 
brothers.  When  the  Onondagas  have  gone  on 
the  war-path,  Senecas  and  Cayugas  have  gone 
with  them,  and  the  trouble  of  one  has  been  the 
trouble  of  all." 

"  The  good  White  Father  is  no  longer  the 
war  chief  of  the  white  men.  The  Great  Moun- 
tain, who  knew  the  voice  of  the  forest,  who 
spoke  with  the  tongue  of  the  redman,  has 
been  called  back  to  his  Great-Chief- Across-the- 
Water.  His  word  was  the  word  of  kindness, 
and  when  he  spoke  our  hearts  were  warm.  But 
another  mountain  is  now  the  war  chief,  a  moun- 
tain that  spits  fire  and  lead,  that  speaks  with 
a  double  tongue.  The  Five  Nations  have 
never  turned  from  a  foe.  The  enemy  of  the 
Senecas  has  been  the  enemy  of  the  Mohawks. 
If  the  storm  strikes  the  fields  of  the  Senecas, 
their  brothers  will  not  turn  away  and  stop  their 
ears  and  say  they  do  not  hear  the  thunder,  for 
they  remember  the  storms  of  other  seasons, 
and  they  know  that  the  hail  that  destroys  one 
field  will  destroy  other  fields.  And  so  this  is 
the  word  of  the  Cayugas :  —  Let  all  the  warriors 


240  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

i 

of  the  Five  Nations  take  up  the  hatchet ;  let 
them  go  on  the  war-path  to  tell  this  white  chief 
with  the  double  tongue  that  the  Five  Nations 
are  one  nation ;  that  they  are  bolder  than 
thunder,  swifter  than  fire,  stronger  than  lead." 

The  maid  found,  it  hard,  with  her  imperfect 
knowledge  of  the  language,  to  follow  his  meta- 
phors. She  had  partly  risen,  heedless  of  the 
smoke,  and  was  leaning  forward  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  stern  face  of  the  speaker. 
Menard  bent  down,  and  half  smiled  at  her 
excitement. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  He  is  for 
war?" 

"  Yes ;  he  naturally  would  be."  There  was  a 
stir  about  the  house,  as  the  speech  ended,  and 
they  could  speak  softly  without  drawing  notice. 
"  The  Cayugas  are  nearer  to  the  Senecas  than 
the  other  nations,  and  they  fear  that  they  too 
may  suffer." 

"  Then  you  do  not  think  they  all  feel  with 
him  ? " 

"  No ;  the  Oneidas  and  Mohawks,  and  even 
the  Onondagas,  are  too  far  to  the  east  to  feel 
in  danger.  They  know  how  hard  it  would  be 
for  the  Governor  to  move  far  from  his  base  in 
this  country.  It  may  be  that  the  younger  war- 


THE   LONG   HOUSE.  241 

riors  will  be  for  fighting,  but  the  older  heads 
will  think  of  the  corn." 

"  Will  the  Big  Throat  speak  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  not  like  these  others.  He  talks 
simply  and  forcibly.  That  is  the  way  when  a 
chief's  reputation  is  made.  The  Big  Throat 
won  his  name,  as  a  younger  brave,  by  his  won- 
derful oratory." 

"  And  you,  M'sieu,  —  you  will  be  heard  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  think  so.  We  must  not  talk  any 
more  now.  They  will  not  like  it." 

The  Cayuga  was  followed  by  a  wrinkled  old 
chief  of  the  Oneidas,  called  the  Hundred  Skins. 
He  stepped  forward  and  stood  near  the  fire,  his 
blanket  drawn  close  about  his  shoulders,  where 
the  red  light  could  play  on  his  face.  A  whisper 
ran  around  the  outer  circle,  for  it  was  known 
that  he  stood  for  peace. 

"  My  Cayuga  brother  has  spoken  wisely,"  he 
began,  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice.  He  looked 
slowly  about  the  house  to  command  attention. 
"  The  Oneidas  have  not  forgotten  the  storms 
of  other  seasons ;  they  have  not  forgotten  the 
times  of  starving,  when  neither  the  Manitous 
of  the  redman  nor  the  God  of  the  white  man 
came  to  help.  The  grain  stood  brown  in  the 
fields;  the  leaves  hung  dead  from  the  trees; 


24 2  THE  ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC. 

there  was  no  wind  to  cool  the  fever  that  carried 
away  old  men  and  young  men,  squaws  and 
children.  And  when  the  wind  came,  and  the 
cold  and  snow  of  the  winter,  there  was  no  food 
in  the  lodges  of  the  Five  Nations.  My  broth- 
ers have  heard  that  the  corn  is  rising  to  a  man's 
height  —  they  have  seen  it  to-day  in  the  fields 
of  the  Onondagas.  They  know  that  this  corn 
must  be  cared  for  like  the  children  of  their 
lodges,  if  they  wish  food  to  eat  when  the  winter 
comes  and  the  fields  are  dead.  They  know 
what  it  will  cost  them  to  take  the  war-path. 

"  Twelve  moons  have  not  gone  since  the 
chiefs  of  the  Senecas  rose  in  this  house  and 
called  on  the  warriors  of  the  Five  Nations  to 
take  up  the  hatchet  against  the  white  men  of  the 
north.  The  skins  of  the  beaver  were  talking  in 
their  ears.  They  saw  great  canoes  on  the  white 
man's  rivers  loaded  with  skins,  and  their  hands 
itched  and  their  hearts  turned  inward.  Then 
the  wise  chiefs  of  the  Oneidas  and  Cayugas  and 
Onondagas  and  Mohawks  spoke  well.  They 
were  not  on  the  war-path ;  the  hatchet  was  deep 
in  the  ground,  and  young  trees  were  growing 
over  it.  Then  the  Oneidas  said  that  the  White 
Chief  would  not  forget  if  the  Senecas  heeded 
their  itching  hands  and  listened  to  the  bad 


THE   LONG   HOUSE.  243 

medicine  of  the  beaver  skins  in  their  ears.  But 
the  Senecas  were  not  wise,  and  they  took  up 
the  hatchet. 

"This  is  the  word  of  the  Oneidas  to  the 
chiefs  of  the  Long  House :  —  The  Seneca  has 
put  his  foot  in  the  trap.  Then  shall  the  Oneida 
and  Onondaga  and  Cayuga  and  Mohawk  rush 
after,  that  they  too  may  put  in  their  feet  where 
they  can  get  away  only  by  gnawing  off  the 
bone  ?  Shall  the  wise  chiefs  of  the  Long 
House  run  into  fight  like  the  dogs  of  their 
village  ?  The  Oneidas  say  no  !  The  Senecas 
took  up  the  hatchet;  let  them  bury  it  where 
they  can.  And  when  the  winter  comes,  the 
Oneidas  will  send  them  corn  that  they  may  not 
have  another  time  of  starving." 

Menard  was  watching  the  Oneida  with  eyes 
that  fairly  snapped.  The  low  voice  stopped, 
and  another  murmur  ran  around  the  outer  cir- 
cles. The  Hundred  Skins  had  spoken  boldly, 
and  the  Cayuga  young  men  looked  stern.  The 
chief  stepped  slowly  back  and  resumed  his  seat, 
and  then,  not  before,  did  Menard's  face  relax. 
He  looked  about  cautiously  to  see  if  he  was 
observed,  then  settled  back  and  gazed  stolidly 
into  the  fire.  The  old  Oneida  had  played 
directly  into  his  hand ;  by  letting  slip  the  mo- 


244  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

tive  for  the  Seneca  raid  of  the  winter  before,  he 
had  strengthened  the  one  weak  point  in  the 
speech  Menard  meant  to  make. 

The  next  speaker  was  one  of  the  younger  war 
chiefs  of  the  Onondagas.  He  made  an  effort 
to  speak  with  the  calmness  of  the  older  men, 
but  there  was  now  and  then  a  flash  in  his  eye 
and  an  ill-controlled  vigour  in  his  voice  that  told 
Menard  and  the  priest  how  strong  was  the  war 
party  of  this  village.  The  Onondaga  plunged 
into  his  speech  without  the  customary  deliber- 
ation. 

"  Our  brothers,  the  Senecas,  have  sent  to  us 
for  aid.  We  have  been  called  to  the  Long 
House  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  Senecas,  —  not 
from  the  lips  of  their  chiefs,  for  they  have  fields 
and  villages  to  guard  against  the  white  man, 
and  they  are  not  here  to  stand  before  the  coun- 
cil and  ask  what  an  Iroquois  never  refuses. 
The  Cayuga  has  spoken  with  the  voice  of  the 
Seneca.  Shall  the  chiefs  and  warriors  of  the 
Long  House  say  to  the  Cayuga,  '  Go  back  to 
your  village  and  send  messengers  to  the  Sene- 
cas to  tell  them  that  their  brothers  of  the  Long 
House  have  corn  and  squaws  and  children  that 
are  more  to  them  than  the  battles  of  their 
brothers  —  tell  the  Senecas  that  the  Oneidas 


THE   LONG  HOUSE.  245 

must  eat  and  cannot  fight '  ?  There  is  corn  in 
the  fields  of  the  Oneidas.  But  there  is  food  for 
all  the  Five  Nations  in  the  great  house  on  the 
Lake." 

The  speaker  paused  to  let  his  words  sink  in. 
Menard  whispered  to  the  maid,  in  reply  to  an 
inquiring  look.  "  He  means  the  Governor's 
base  of  supplies  at  La  Famine." 

The  Onondaga's  voice  began  to  rise. 

"  When  the  Oneida  thinks  of  his  corn,  is  he 
afraid  to  leave  it  to  his  squaws  ?  Does  he  hesi- 
tate because  he  thinks  the  white  warriors  are 
strong  enough  to  turn  on  him  and  drive  him 
from  his  villages  ?  This  is  not  the  speech  that 
young  warriors  are  taught  to  expect  from  the 
Long  House.  When  has  the  Long  House  been 
guided  by  fear  ?  No.  If  the  Oneida  is  hun- 
gry, let  him  eat  from  the  stores  of  the  white 
man,  at  the  house  on  the  Lake.  The  Cayugas 
and  Onondagas  will  draw  their  belts  tighter, 
that  the  Oneida  may  be  filled." 

The  young  chief  looked  defiantly  around. 
There  was  a  murmur  from  the  outer  circle,  but 
the  chiefs  were  grave  and  silent.  The  Hun- 
dred Skins  gazed  meditatively  into  the  fire  as 
if  he  had  not  heard,  slowly  puffing  at  his  pipe. 
The  taunt  of  cowardice  had  sprung  out  in  the 


246  THE  ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC. 

heat  of  youth ;  his  dignity  demanded  that  he 
ignore  it.  The  speech  had  its  effect  on  the 
Cayugas  and  the  young  men,  but  the  older 
heads  were  steady. 

Other  chiefs  rose,  talked,  and  resumed  their 
places,  giving  all  views  of  the  situation  and  of 
the  relations  between  the  Iroquois  and  the 
French,  —  but  still  little  expression  showed  on 
the  inner  circle  of  faces.  The  maid  after  a 
time  grew  more  accustomed  to  the  smoke,  and 
sat  up.  She  was  puzzled  by  the  conflicting 
arguments  and  the  lack  of  enthusiasm.  Fully 
two  hours  had  passed,  and  there  was  no  sign 
of  an  agreement.  The  eager  spectators,  in  the 
outer  rows,  gradually  settled  down. 

During  a  lull  between  two  speeches,  Menard 
spoke  to  the  maid,  who  was  beginning  to  show 
traces  of  weariness. 

"  It  may  be  a  long  sitting,  Mademoiselle. 
We  must  make  the  best  of  it." 

"Yes."  She  smiled.  "I  am  a  little  tired. 
It  has  been  a  hard  day." 

"  Too  hard,  poor  child.  But  I  hope  to  see 
you  safe  very  soon  now.  I  am  relying  on  the 
Big  Throat.  He,  with  a  few  of  the  older 
chiefs,  sees  farther  than  these  hot-heads.  He 
knows  that  France  must  conquer  in  the  end, 


THE   LONG   HOUSE.  247 

and  is  wise  enough  to  make  terms  whenever 
he  can." 

"  But  can  he,  M'sieu  ?    Will  they  obey  him  ?  " 

"  Not  obey,  exactly ;  he  will  not  command 
them.  Indians  have  no  discipline  such  as  ours. 
The  chiefs  rely  on  their  judgment  and  influence. 
But  they  have  followed  the  guidance  of  the  Big 
Throat  for  too  many  years  to  leave  it  now." 

Another  chief  rose  to  speak.  The  sun  had 
gone,  and  the  long  building  was  growing  dark 
rapidly.  A  number  of  squaws  came  through 
the  circle,  throwing  wood  on  the  fires.  The 
new  flames  shot  up,  and  threw  a  flickering 
light  on  the  copper  faces,  many  of  which  still 
wore  the  paint  of  the  morning.  The  smoke 
lay  over  them  in  wavering  films,  now  and  again 
half  hiding  some  sullen  face  until  it  seemed  to 
fade  away  into  the  darkness. 

At  last  the  whole  situation  lay  clear  before 
the  council.  Some  speakers  were  for  war,  some 
for  peace,  others  for  aiding  the  Senecas  as  a 
matter  of  principle.  The  house  was  divided. 

There  was  a  silence,  and  the  pipes  glowed  in 
the  dusk;  then  the  Long  Arrow  rose.  The 
listless  spectators  stirred  and  leaned  forward. 
The  maid,  too,  was  moved,  feeling  that  at  last 
the  moment  of  decision  was  near.  She  was 


248  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

surprised  to  see  that  he  had  none  of  the  savage 
excitement  of  the  morning.  He  was  as  quiet 
and  tactful  in  speech  as  the  Big  Throat  himself. 

Slowly  the  Long  Arrow  drew  his  blanket 
close  about  him  and  began  to  speak.  The 
house  grew  very  still,  for  the  whole  tribe  knew 
that  he  had,  in  his  anger  of  the  morning,  dis- 
puted the  authority  of  the  Big  Throat.  There 
had  been  hot  words,  and  the  great  chief  had 
rebuked  him  contemptuously  within  the  hear- 
ing of  half  a  hundred  warriors.  Now  he  was 
to  stand  before  the  council,  and  not  a  man  in 
that  wide  circle  but  wondered  how  much  he 
would  dare  to  say. 

He  seemed  not  to  observe  the  curious 
glances.  Simply  and  quietly  he  began  the 
narrative  of  the  capture  of  the  hunting  party 
at  Fort  Frontenac.  At  the  first  words  Menard 
turned  to  Father  Claude  with  a  meaning  look. 
The  majd  saw  it,  and  her  lips  framed  a  question. 

"  It  is  better  than  I  hoped,"  Menard  whispered. 
"  He  is  bringing  it  up  himself." 

"  Not  two  moons  have  waned,"  the  Long 
Arrow  was  saying,  "since  five  score  brave 
young  warriors  left  our  village  for  the  hunt. 
They  left  the  hatchet  buried  under  the  trees. 
They  took  no  war-paint.  The  Great  Moun- 


THE   LONG   HOUSE.  249 

tain  had  said  that  there  was  peace  between 
the  redman  and  the  white  man ;  he  had  asked 
the  Onondagas  to  hunt  on  the  banks  of  the 
Great  River;  he  had  told  them  that  his  white 
sons  at  the  Stone  House  would  take  them  as 
brothers  into  their  lodges.  When  the  Great 
Mountain  said  this,  through  the  mouths  of  the 
holy  Fathers,  he  lied." 

The  words  came  out  in  the  same  low,  even 
tone  in  which  he  had  begun  speaking,  but 
they  sank  deep.  The  house  was  hushed ;  even 
the  stirring  of  the  children  on  the  benches 
died  away. 

"  The  Great  Mountain  has  lied  to  his  chil- 
dren," —  Menard's  keen  ears  caught  the  bitter, 
if  covered,  sarcasm  in  the  last  two  words ;  they 
had  been  Governor  Frontenac's  favourite  term 
in  addressing  the  Iroquois  —  "and  his  children 
know  his  voice  no  longer.  There  is  corn  in  the 
fields  ?  Let  it  grow  or  rot.  There  are  squaws 
and  children  in  our  lodges?  Let  them  live  or 
die.  It  is  not  the  Senecas  who  ask  our  aid ;  it 
is  the  voice  of  a  hundred  sons  and  brothers  and 
youths  and  squaws  calling  from  far  beyond  the 
great  water,  —  calling  from  chains,  calling  from 
fever,  calling  from  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground, 
where  they  have  gone  without  guns  or  corn  or 


250  THE  ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

blankets,  where  they  lie  with  nothing  to  com- 
fort them."  The  Long  Arrow  stood  erect,  with 
head  thrown  back  and  eyes  fixed  on  the  oppo- 
site wall.  "  Our  sons  and  brothers  went  like 
children  to  the  Stone  House  of  the  white  man. 
Their  hands  were  stretched  before  them,  their 
muskets  hung  empty  from  their  shoulders,  their 
bowstrings  were  loosened ;  the  calumet  was  in 
their  hands.  But  the  sons  of  Onontio  lied  as 
their  fathers  had  taught  them.  They  took  the 
calumet ;  they  called  the  Onondagas  into  their 
great  lodge ;  and  in  the  sleep  of  the  white  man's 
fire-water  they  chained  them.  Five  score  Onon- 
dagas have  gone  to  be  slaves  to  the  Great- 
Chief-Across-the- Water,  who  loves  his  children 
and  is  kind  to  them,  and  would  take  them  all 
under  his  arm  where  no  storm  can  harm  them. 
My  brothers  of  the  Long  House  have  heard 
the  promises  of  Onontio,  and  they  have  seen  the 
fork  in  his  tongue.  And  so  they  choose  this 
time  to  speak  of  corn  and  squaws  and  children." 
The  keen,  closely  set  eyes  slowly  lowered  and 
swept  around  the  circle.  "  Is  this  the  time  to 
speak  of  corn  ?  Our  Manitou  has  sent  this 
Great  Mountain  into  our  country.  He  has 
placed  him  in  our  hands  so  that  we  may  strike, 
so  that  we  may  tell  the  white  man  with  our 


THE   LONG   HOUSE.  251 

muskets  that  our  Manitou  is  stern  and  just,  and 
that  no  Iroquois  will  listen  to  the  idle  words  of 
a  double  tongue." 

He  paused,  readjusted  his  blanket,  and  then 
stood  motionless,  that  all  might  digest  his 
words.  Then,  after  a  long  wait,  he  went  on:  — 

"  There  are  children  to-day  in  our  lodges  who 
can  remember  the  Big  Buffalo,  who  can  remem- 
ber our  adopted  son  who  shared  our  fires  and 
food,  who  shared  our  hunts,  who  lived  with  us 
as  freely  as  an  Onondaga.  We  saw  him  every 
day,  and  we  forgot  that  his  heart  was  as  white 
as  his  skin,  for  his  tongue  was  the  tongue  of  an 
Onondaga.  We  forgot  that  the  white  man  has 
two  tongues.  It  has  not  been  long,  my  brothers, 
—  not  long  enough  for  an  Onondaga  to  forget. 
But  the  Big  Buffalo  is  a  mangy  dog.  He  for- 
got the  brothers  of  his  lodge.  He  it  was  who 
took  the  Onondaga  hunters  and  carried  them 
away  to  be  slaves.  But  the  Manitou  did  not 
forget.  He  has  put  this  Big  Buffalo  into  our 
hands,  that  we  may  give  him  what  should  be 
given  to  the  dog  who  forgets  his  master." 

Again  the  Long  Arrow  paused. 

"  No ;  this  is  not  the  time  to  speak  of  corn. 
It  is  not  the  Senecas  who  call  us,  it  is  our 
brothers  and  their  squaws  and  children.  The 


25  2  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Iroquois  have  been  the  greatest  warriors  of 
the  world.  They  have  driven  the  Hurons  to 
the  far  northern  forests;  the  Illinois  to  the 
Father  of  Waters,  two  moons'  travel  to  the 
west;  the  Delawares  to  the  waters  of  the  south. 
They  have  told  the  white  man  to  stay  within 
his  boundaries,  and  he  has  stayed.  They  have 
been  kind  to  the  white  man ;  they  have  wel- 
comed the  holy  Fathers  into  their  villages.  But 
now  the  Great  Mountain  makes  slaves  of  the 
Onondagas.  He  brings  his  warriors  across  the 
Great  Lake  to  punish  the  Senecas  and  destroy 
their  lodges.  Shall  the  Long  House  of  the 
Five  Nations  turn  a  white  face  to  this  Great 
Mountain  ?  Shall  the  Long  House  call  out  in 
a  shaking  voice,  '  See,  Onontio,  there  are  no 
heads  on  our  arrows,  no  flints  in  our  muskets ! 
our  hatchets  are  dull,  our  knives  nicked  and 
rusted!  come,  Onontio,  and  strike  us,  that 
we  may  know  you  are  our  master  and  our 
father'?" 

The  Long  Arrow's  voice  had  risen  only 
slightly,  but  now  it  dropped ;  he  went  on,  in 
a  tone  that  was  keen  as  a  knife,  but  so  low 
that  those  at  the  farther  end  of  the  house 
leaned  forward  and  sat  motionless. 

"  It  has  been  said  to-day  to  the  Long  House 


THE   LONG   HOUSE.  253 

that  we  shall  close  our  ears  to  the  thunder  of 
the  Great  Mountain,  that  we  should  think  of 
our  corn  and  our  squaws,  and  leave  the  Seiiecas 
to  fight  their  own  battles.  But  the  Long  House 
will  not  do  this.  The  Long  House  will  not 
give  up  the  liberty  that  has  been  the  pride  of 
the  Iroquois  since  first  the  rivers  ran  to  the 
lake,  and  the  moss  grew  on  the  trees,  and  the 
wind  waved  the  tops  of  the  long  grass.  The 
Great  Mountain  has  come  to  take  this  liberty. 
He  shall  not  have  it.  No ;  he  shall  lose  his 
own  —  we  will  leave  his  bones  to  dry  where 
the  Seneca  dogs  run  loose.  The  Big  Buffalo 
shall  die  to  tell  the  white  man  that  the  Iro- 
quois never  forgets ;  the  Great  Mountain  shall 
die  to  tell  the  white  man  that  the  Iroquois  is 
free." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    VOICE    OF    THE    GREAT    MOUNTAIN. 

HPHERE  was  no  lack  of  interest  now  in  the 
*  council.  The  weariness  left  the  maid's 
eyes  as  she  followed  the  speeches  that  came  in 
rapid  succession.  There  was  still  the  disagree- 
ment, the  confusion  of  a  dozen  different  views 
and  demands;  but  the  speech  of  the  Long 
Arrow  had  pointed  the  discussion,  it  had  set 
up  an  opinion  to  be  either  defended  or  attacked. 

"  Will  the  Big  Throat  speak  now  ?  "  asked 
Mademoiselle,  leaning  close  to  Menard. 

"  I  hardly  think  so.  I  don't  know  what  will 
come  next." 

"  When  will  you  speak,  M'sieu  ?  " 

"  Not  until  word  from  the  Big  Throat.  It 
would  be  a  breach  of  courtesy." 

One  warrior,  a  member  of  the  Beaver  family, 
and  probably  a  blood  relative  of  the  Beaver  who 
had  been  killed  in  the  fight  of  the  morning,  took 
advantage  of  the  pause  to  speak  savagely  for 
war  and  vengeance.  He  counted  those  who 

254 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE   GREAT  MOUNTAIN.     255 

had  fallen  since  the  sun  rose,  and  appealed  to 
their  families  to  destroy  the  man  who  had  killed 
them.  He  was  not  a  chief,  but  his  fiery  speech 
aroused  a  murmur  of  approval  from  scattered 
groups  of  the  spectators.  This  sympathy  from 
thos*  about  him,  with  the  anger  which  was 
steadily  fed  by  his  own  hot  words,  gradually 
drove  from  his  mind  the  observance  of  etiquette 
which  was  so  large  a  part  of  an  important  coun- 
cil. Still  speaking,  he  left  his  place,  and  walk- 
ing slowly  between  two  of  the  fires  and  across 
the  circle,  paused  before  Menard. 

"  The  dog  whom  we  fed  and  grew  has  turned 
against  its  masters,  as  the  dogs  of  your  own 
lodges,  my  brothers,  will  bite  the  hand  that  pats 
their  heads.  It  has  hung  about  outside  of  the 
Great  Lodge  to  kill  the  hunter  who  sees  no 
danger  ahead.  And  now,  when  this  dog  is 
caught,  and  tied  at  your  door,  would  not  my 
brothers  bring  him  to  the  end  of  all  evil 
beasts  ? "  As  he  finished,  he  made  a  gesture 
of  bitter  contempt  and  kicked  Menard. 

A  shout  went  up,  and  voices  clamoured,  pro- 
testing, denouncing,  exulting.  The  Captain's 
eyes  flashed  fire.  It  was  not  for  a  second  that 
he  hesitated.  Weakness,  to  an  Indian,  is  the 
last,  the  greatest  fault.  If  he  should  take  this 


256  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

insult,  it  would  end  forever  not  only  his  own 
chance  of  escape,  with  the  maid  and  the  priest, 
but  all  hope  of  safety  for  the  Governor's  column. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  before  the  Indian,  whose 
arm  was  still  stretched  out  in  the  gesture,  and 
with  two  quick  blows  knocked  him  clear  of  his 
feet,  and  then  kicked  him  into  the  fire. 

A  dozen  hands  dragged  the  warrior  from  the 
fire  and  stamped  out  a  blaze  that  had  started  in 
the  fringe  of  one  legging.  Every  man  in  the 
house  was  on  his  feet,  shouting  and  screaming. 
Menard  stood  with  his  hands  at  his  side,  smil- 
ing, with  the  same  look  of  scorn  he  had  worn  in 
the  morning  when  they  led  him  to  the  torture. 
Father  Claude  drew  closer  to  the  maid,  and 
the  two  sat  without  moving.  Then  above  the 
uproar  rose  the  voice  of  the  Big  Throat;  and 
slowly  the  noise  died  away.  The  chief  stepped 
to  the  centre  of  the  circle,  but  before  he  could 
speak  Menard  had  reached  his  side,  and  mo- 
tioned to  him  to  be  silent. 

"  My  brothers,"  he  said,  looking  straight  at 
the  fallen  warrior,  who.  was  scrambling  to  his 
feet,  —  "my  brothers,  the  Big  Buffalo  is  sorry 
that  the  Onondagas  have  among  them  a  fool 
who  thinks  himself  a  warrior.  The  Big  Buffalo 
is  not  here  to  fight  fools.  He  is  here  to  talk  to 


THE  VOICE   OF  THE   GREAT  MOUNTAIN.    257 

chiefs.  He  is  glad  that  the  fool  speaks  only  for 
himself  and  not  for  the  brave  men  of  the  Long 
House."  He  walked  deliberately  back  and 
resumed  his  seat  by  the  maid. 

"  Courage,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  close  to 
her  ear.  "  It  is  all  right." 

"  What  will  they  do,  M'sieu  ? " 

"  Nothing.  I  have  won.  Wait  —  the  Big 
Throat  is  speaking." 

One  by  one  the  warriors  fell  back  to  their 
seats.  Some  were  muttering,  some  were  smil- 
ing ;  but  all  were  subdued.  The  Big  Throat's 
voice  was  calm  and  firm. 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  has  spoken  well.  The 
word  of  a  fool  is  not  the  word  of  the  Long 
House.  The  White  Chief  comes  to  give  us 
the  voice  of  Onontio,  and  we  will  listen." 

He  turned  toward  Menard,  and  then  resumed 
his  seat. 

The  Captain  rose,  and  looked  about  the  cir- 
cle. The  chiefs  were  motionless.  Even  the 
Long  Arrow,  now  that  his  outburst  was  past, 
closed  his  lips  over  the  stem  of  his  pipe  and 
gazed  at  the  smoke.  Father  Claude  drew  for- 
ward the  bundle  and  opened  it,  the  maid  help- 
ing. Some  of  the  boys  behind  them  crowded 
closer  to  see  the  presents. 


258  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Menard  spoke  slowly  and  quietly.  The  rus- 
tling and  whispering  in  the  outer  circle  died 
away,  so  that  every  word  was  distinct. 

"  When  the  Five  Nations  have  given  their 
word  to  another  nation,  it  has  not  been  neces- 
sary to  sign  a  paper ;  it  has  not  been  necessary 
to  keep  a  record.  The  Long  Arrow  has  said 
that  the  Iroquois  do  not  forget.  He  is  right. 
The  words  that  have  gone  out  from  the  councils 
have  never  been  forgotten.  I  see  here,  in  this 
cou/icil,  the  faces  of  warriors  who  have  grown 
old  in  serving  their  people,  of  chiefs  who  are 
bent  and  wrinkled  with  the  cares  of  many  gen- 
erations. I  see  in  the  eyes  of  my  brothers  that 
they  have  not  forgotten  the  Onontio,  who  went 
away  to  his  greater  chief  only  five  seasons  ago. 
They  have  seen  this  Onontio  in  war  and  peace. 
They  have  listened  to  his  silver  tongue  in  the 
council.  They  have  called  themselves  his  chil- 
dren, and  have  known  that  he  was  a  wise  and 
kind  father.  They  remember  the  promises  they 
made  him.  But  the  Senecas  did  not  remember. 
The  Seneca  has  no  ears ;  he  has  a  hole  in  his 
head,  and  the  words  of  his  father  have  passed 
through.  The  Senecas  promised  Onontio  that 
they  would  not  take  the  white  man's  beaver. 
But  when  the  English  came  to  their  lodges  and 


THE  VOICE   OF  THE   GREAT  MOUNTAIN.     259 

whispered  in  their  ears,  the  hole  was  stopped. 
The  English  whispered  of  brandy  and  guns  and 
powder  and  hatchets  and  knives.  They  told 
the  Senecas  that  these  things  should  be  given 
to  them  if  they  would  steal  the  beaver.  The 
English  are  cowards  —  they  sent  the  Senecas 
to  do  what  they  were  afraid  to  do.  .  And  then 
the  hole  in  the  Seneca's  head  was  stopped  - 
the  Seneca  who  had  forgotten  the  words  of 
Onontio  remembered  the  words  of  the  English. 

"  My  brothers  of  the  Long  House  had  not 
forgotten  the  promises  they  had  given  Onontio. 
When  the  Seneca  chiefs  called  for  aid  in  steal- 
ing the  beaver,  my  brothers  were  wise  and  said 
no.  The  Onondagas  and  Cayugas  and  Onei- 
das  and  Mohawks  were  loyal  —  they  kept  their 
promise,  and  Onontio  has  not  forgotten;  he 
will  not  forget. 

"  This  is  what  the  Great  Mountain  would  say 
to  you,  my  brothers :  You  have  been  faithful  to 
your  word,  and  he  is  pleased.  He  knows  that 
the  Onondagas  are  his  children.  And  he 
knows  why  the  Senecas  left  their  villages  and 
fields  to  plunder  his  white  children.  It  was 
for  the  skins  of  the  beaver,  which  the  white 
braves  had  taken  from  their  own  forests  and 
would  bring  in  their  canoes  down  the  Ottawa 


260  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

to  trade  at  the  white  man's  villages.  He 
knows,  my  brothers,  that  the  Senecas  had 
tired  of  their  promises,  and  now  would  steal 
the  beaver  and  sell  it  to  the  English.  What 
comes  to  the  boy  when  he  climbs  the  tree  to 
steal  the  honey  which  the  bees  have  gathered 
and  taken  to  their  home?  Is  he  not  stung 
and  bitten  until  he  cries  that  he  will  not  dis- 
turb the  bees  again  ?  The  Senecas  have  tried 
to  take  that  which  is  to  the  white  man  as  the 
honey  is  to  the  bee ;  and  they  too  must  be 
stung  and  bitten  until  they  have  learned  that 
the  Great  Mountain  will  always  protect  those 
who  deserve  his  aid.  He  has  sent  you  a  comb 
from  the  shell  of  the  great  sea-tortoise,  more 
precious  than  a  thousand  wampum  shells,  to  tell 
you  that  as  the  sea-monster  pursues  its  enemies, 
so  will  he  pursue  those  who  cannot  keep  their 
promises  —  who  lie  to  him." 

Father  Claude  handed  him  the  comb,  and  he 
laid  it  before  the  Big  Throat.  It  was  evident 
that  he  had  been  closely  followed,  and  he 
started  on  his  second  word  with  more  vigour. 

"  Your  chiefs  have  spoken  to-day  of  the 
storm  cloud  that  has  swept  down  from  the 
north;  your  runners  have  told  you  that  it  is 
not  a  cloud,  but  an  army,  that  has  come  up 


THE  VOICE   OF  THE   GREAT  MOUNTAIN.     261 

the  great  river  and  across  the  lake  of  Fronte- 
nac  to  the  country  of  the  Senecas.  Do  my 
brothers  know  what  a  great  army  follows  their 
White  Father  when  he  sets  out  to  punish  his 
children?  More  than  twenty  score  of  trained 
warriors  are  in  this  war  party,  and  every  war- 
rior carries  a  musket ;  to-night  they  are  march- 
ing on  the  Seneca  villages.  They  will  destroy 
those  villages  as  a  brave  would  destroy  a  nest 
of  hornets  in  his  lodge.  Not  one  lodge  will  be 
left  standing,  not  one  stalk  of  corn. 

"  The  Oneidas  and  Onondagas  and  Cayugas 
talk  of  their  cornfields.  But  even  the  Cayugas 
need  have  no  fear.  For  Onontio  is  a  wise  and 
just  father ;  he  punishes  only  those  that  offend 
him.  The  Senecas  have  broken  their  promises, 
and  the  Senecas  must  be  punished,  .but  the 
other  nations  are  still  the  children  of  the  Great 
Mountain,  and  his  hand  is  over  them.  The 
Big  Buffalo  has  come  from  the  Great  Moun- 
tain to  tell  you  that  he  will  not  harm  the  Cayu- 
gas ;  their  fields  and  lodges  are  safe." 

There  was  a  stir  at  this,  and  then  quiet,  as 
the  spectators  settled  back  to  hear  the  rest  of 
Menard's  speech.  Here  was  a  captive  who 
spoke  as  boldly  as  their  own  chiefs,  who  com- 
manded their  attention  as  a  present  bearer  from 


262  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

the  White  Chief.  And  they  knew,  all  of  them, 
from  the  way  in  which  he  was  choosing  his 
words,  coolly  ignoring  the  more  important 
subjects  until  he  should  be  ready  to  deal  with 
them,  that  he  spoke  with  authority.  He  knew 
his  auditors,  and  he  let  them  see  that  he  knew 
them. 

"  The  Senecas  have  listened  to  the  English. 
What  do  they  expect  from  them?  Do  they 
think  that  the  English  wish  to  help  them? 
Do  they  look  for  wealth  and  support  from  the 
English?  My  brothers  of  the  Long  House 
know  better.  They  have  seen  the  English 
hide  from  the  anger  of  the  Great  Mountain. 
They  have  seen  the  iron  hand  of  New  France 
reach  out  across  the  northern  country,  and 
along  the  shores  of  the  great  lakes,  and  down 
the  Father  of  Waters  in  the  far  west,  while  the 
English  were  clinging  to  their  little  strip  of 
land  on  the  edge  of  the  sea.  My  brothers 
know  who  is  strong  and  who  is  weak.  Never 
have  the  fields  of  the  Five  Nations  been  so  rich 
and  so  large.  No  wars  have  disturbed  them. 
They  have  grown  and  prospered.  Do  the 
Senecas  think  it  is  the  English  who  have 
made  them  great  ?  No  —  the  Senecas  are  not 
fools.  They  know  that  the  Great  Mountain 


THE  VOICE   OF  THE  GREAT  MOUNTAIN.     263 

has  driven  away  their  enemies  and  given  them 
peace  and  plenty.  My  brothers  of  the  Long 
House  remembered  this  when  the  Senecas 
came  to  them  and  asked  for  aid  in  stealing 
the  beaver.  They  stopped  their  ears;  they 
knew  that  Onontio  was  their  father,  and  that 
they  must  be  faithful  to  him  if  they  wished  to 
have  plenty  in  their  lodges. 

"  Onontio  is  a  patient  father.  Let  the  Sene- 
cas repent,  and  he  will  forgive  them.  Let 
them  bury  the  hatchet,  and  he  will  forgive 
them.  Let  them  be  satisfied  with  peace  and 
honest  trade,  and  he  will  buy  their  furs,  and 
give  them  fair  payment.  And  then  their  corn- 
fields shall  grow  so  large  that  a  fleet  runner 
cannot  pass  around  them  in  half  a  moon.  They 
shall  have  no  more  famine.  Their  pouches 
shall  be  full  of  powder,  their  muskets  new  and 
bright.  Their  women  shall  have  warm  cloth- 
ing and  many  beads.  Nowhere  shall  there  be 
such  prosperous  nations  as  here  among  the 
Iroquois.  If  the  Senecas  have  broken  their 
pledges  and  have  not  repented,  they  must  be 
punished.  But  the  Cayugas  and  Onondagas 
and  Oneidas  and  Mohawks  have  not  broken 
their  pledges.  The  Great  Mountain  has  sent 
the  Big  Buffalo  to  tell  them  that  he  has  seen 


264  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

that  they  are  loyal,  and  he  is  pleased.  He 
knows  that  they  are  wise.  If  the  Onondagas 
have  a  grievance,  he  will  not  forget  it,  and  if 
they  ask  for  vengeance  he  will  hear  them. 
The  Great  Mountain  knows  that  the  Onon- 
dagas are  his  children,  that  they  will  not  make 
war  upon  their  father.  He  sends  this  coat  of 
seal  fur  that  the  hearts  of  the  Cayugas  and 
Onondagas  and  Oneidas  and  Mohawks  may 
be  kept  warm,  and  to  tell  them  that  he  loves 
them  and  will  protect  them." 

The  maid's  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement. 

"  I  wish  they  would  speak,  or  laugh,  or  do 
something,"  she  whispered  to  Father  Claude, 
"  Are  they  not  interested  ?  They  hardly  seem 
to  hear  him." 

The  priest  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  they  are  listening." 

The  time  had  come  to  speak  of  La  Grange. 
The  Captain  had  been  steadily  leading  up  to 
this  moment.  He  had  tried  to  show  the  Ind- 
ians that  they  had  no  complaint,  no  cause  for 
war,  unless  it  was  the  one  incident  at  Fort 
Frontenac.  He  knew  that  the  chiefs  not  only 
understood  his  argument,  but  that  they  were 
quietly  waiting  for  him  to  approach  this  real 
cause  of  trouble,  and  were  probably  curious  to 


THE   VOICE   OF  THE   GREAT   MOUNTAIN.     265 

see  how  he  would  meet  it.  The  mind  of  the 
Iroquois,  when  in  the  council,  separated 
from  the  heat  and  emotion  of  the  dance,  the 
hunt,  the  war-path,  was  remarkably  keen. 
Menard  felt  sure  that  if  he  could  present  his 
case  logically  and  firmly,  it  would  appeal  to 
most  of  the  chief  and  older  warriors.  Then 
the  maid  came  into  his  thoughts,  and  he  knew, 
though  he  did  not  look  down,  that  she  was 
gazing  up  at  him  and  waiting.  He  hesitated 
for  a  moment  longer.  The  chiefs,  too,  were 
waiting.  The  Long  House  was  hushed :  — 
three  hundred  faces  were  looking  at  him 
through  the  twisting,  curling  smoke  that 
blurred  the  scene  into  an  unreal  picture.  Yes, 
the  time  had  come  to  speak  of  La  Grange ;  and 
he  spoke  the  first  words  hurriedly>  stepping 
half-unconsciously  farther  from  the  maid. 

There  was  a  part  of  the  true  story  of  the 
capture  which  he  did  not  tell,  — the  Governor's 
part.  For  the  rest,  it  was  all  there,  every  word 
about  La  Grange  and  his  treacherous  act  com- 
ing out  almost  brutally. 

"  Your  speakers  have  told  you  of  the  hunting 
party  that  was  taken  into  the  stone  house, 
and  put  into  chains,  and  sent  away  to  be  slaves 
to  the  Chief- Across-the- Water.  There  is  a  chief 


266  THE   ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC. 

at  the  stone  house  whom  you  have  seen  fight- 
ing bravely  in  many  a  battle.  He  is  a  bold 
warrior ;  none  is  so  quick  or  so  tireless  as  Cap- 
tain la  Grange.  But  he  has  a  devil  in  his 
heart.  The  bad  medicine  of  white  man  and 
redman,  the  fire-water,  is  always  close  to  him, 
ready  to  whisper  to  him  and  guide  him.  It 
was  not  the  father  at  Quebec  that  broke  the 
faith  with  the  Onondagas.  It  was  not  the  Big 
Buffalo.  If  the  Big  Buffalo  could  so  forget 
his  brothers  of  the  Onondaga  lodges,  he  would 
not  have  come  back  to  the  Long  House  to  tell 
them  of  the  sorrow  of  the  Great  Mountain. 
My  brothers  have  seen  the  Big  Buffalo  in  war 
and  peace  —  they  know  that  he  would  not  do 
this. 

"  The  devil  was  in  Captain  la  Grange's 
heart.  He  captured  my  brothers.  He  told 
the  Great  Mountain  that  it  was  a  war  party, 
that  he  had  taken  them  prisoners  fairly.  He 
lied  to  the  Great  Mountain.  When  the  Great 
Mountain  asked  the  Big  Buffalo  to  bring  the 
prisoners  to  his  great  village  on  the  river,  the 
Big  Buffalo  could  not  say, '  No,  I  am  no  longer 
your  son  ! '  When  the  Great  Mountain  com- 
mands, the  Big  Buffalo  obeys.  With  sorrow 
in  his  heart  he  did  as  his  father  told  him." 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE   GREAT   MOUNTAIN.     267 

Menard  was  struggling  to  put  the  maid  out 
of  his  thoughts,  to  keep  in  view  only  the  safety 
of  the  column  and  the  welfare  of  New  France. 
And  as  the  words  came  rapidly  to  his  lips  and 
fell  upon  the  ears  of  that  silent  audience,  he 
began  to  feel  that  they  believed  him. 

"  My  brothers,"  he  said,  with  more  feeling 
than  they  knew,  "  it  is  five  seasons  since  I  left 
your  village  for  the  land  of  the  white  man.  In 
that  time  you  have  had  no  thought  that  I  was 
not  indeed  your  brother,  the  son  of  your  chief. 
You  have  known  other  Frenchmen.  Father 
Claude,  who  sits  by  my  side;  Father  Jean  de 
Lamberville,  who  has  given  his  many  years  to 
save  you  for  the  great  white  man's  Manitou ; 
Major  d'Orvilliers,  who  has  never  failed  to  give 
food  and  shelter  to  the  starving  hunter  at  his 
great  stone  house, — I  could  name  a  hundred 
others.  You  know  that  these  are  honest,  that 
what  they  promise  will  be  done.  But  in  every 
village  is  a  fool,  in  every  family  is  one  who  is 
weak  and  cannot  earn  a  name  on  the  hunt. 
You  have  a  warrior  in  this  house  who  to-day 
raised  his  hand  against  a  visitor  in  the  great 
council.  My  brothers,  —  it  is  with  sadness 
that  I  say  it,  —  not  all  the  white  men  are  true 
warriors.  You  are  wise  chiefs  and  brave  war- 


268  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

riors;  you  know  that  because  one  man  is  a  dog, 
it  is  not  so  with  all  his  nation.  The  Great 
Mountain  sends  me  to  you,  and  I  speak  in  his 
voice.  I  tell  you  that  Captain  la  Grange  is 
a  dog,  that  he  has  broken  the  faith  of  the 
white  man  and  the  redman,  that  the  father  at 
Quebec  and  the  Great-Chief-Across-the- Water, 
who  are  so  quick  to  punish  their  red  children, 
will  also  punish  the  white.  The  white  men 
are  good.  They  love  the  Onondagas.  And 
if  any  white  man  breaks  the  faith,  he  shall  be 
punished." 

His  voice  had  risen,  and  he  was  speaking  in 
a  glow  that  seemed  to  drop  a  spark  into  each 
listening  heart.  He  knew  now  that  they  be- 
lieved. He  turned  abruptly  for  the  present 
Father  Claude  was  so  absorbed  in  following 
the  speech,  and  in  watching  the  maid,  who 
sat  with  flushed  cheeks  and  lowered  eyes,  that 
he  was  not  ready,  and  Menard  stooped  and 
took  the  book.  He  could  not  avoid  seeing 
the  maid,  when  he  looked  down ;  and  the 
priest  felt  a  sudden  pain  in  his  own  heart  to 
see  the  look  of  utter  weariness  that  came  into 
the  Captain's  eyes. 

Menard  turned  the  leaves  of  the  book  for  a 
moment,  as  if  to  collect  himself,  and  then  held 


THE   VOICE   OF  THE   GREAT   MOUNTAIN.     269 

it  open  so  that  the  Indians  could  see  the  bright 
pictures.  There  was  a  craning  of  necks  in  the 
outer  circles. 

"  In  these  picture  writings  is  told  the  story 
of  the  '  Ceremonies  of  the  Mass  applied  to  the 
Passion  of  Our  Lord,' "  he  said  slowly.  "  And 
our  Lord  is  your  Great  Spirit.  It  brings  you 
a  message ;  it  tells  you  that  the  white  man  is 
a  good  man,  who  punishes  his  own  son  as 
sternly  as  his  red  child." 

The  present  pleased  the  Big  Throat.  He 
would  not  let  his  curiosity  appear  in  the  coun- 
cil, but  he  dropped  the  book  so  that  it  fell 
open,  seemingly  by  accident,  and  his  eyes 
strayed  to  it  now  and  then  during  the  last 
word  of  the  speech.  Menard  did  not  hesitate 
again. 

"  I  have  told  my  Onondaga  brothers  that 
this  white  dog  shall  be  punished,"  he  said. 
"  When  this  word  is  given  in  your  council  in 
the  voice  of  Onontio,  it  is  a  word  that  cannot 
be  broken.  Wind  is  not  strong  enough,  thun- 
der is  not  loud  jsnough,  waves  are  not  fierce 
enough,  snows  are  not  cold  enough,  powder  is 
not  swift  enough  to  break  it."  The  words 
came  swiftly  from  his  lips.  Calm  old  chiefs 
leaned  forward  that  they  might  catch  every 


270  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC 

syllable.  Eyes  were  brighter  with  interest. 
The  Long  Arrow,  thinking  of  his  son  and 
fearing  lest  the  man  who  killed  him  should 
slip  from  his  grasp,  grew  troubled  and  more 
stern.  At  last  Menard  turned,  and  taking  the 
portrait  from  the  priest's  hands  held  it  up, 
slowly  turning  it  so  that  all  could  see  it  in 
the  uncertain  firelight.  At  first  they  were  puz- 
zled and  surprised ;  then  a  murmur  of  recog- 
nition ran  from  lip  to  lip. 

"  You  know  this  maid,"  Menard  was  saying, 
"  this  maid  who  to  all  who  love  the  Iroquois,  to 
all  who  love  the  church,  the  Great  Spirit,  is  a 
saint.  Her  spirit  has  been  for  many  moons 
in  the  happy  hunting  ground.  The  snow  has 
lain  cold  and  heavy  on  her  grave.  The  night 
bird  has  sung  her  beauty  in  the  empty  forest. 
Catherine  Outasoren  has  come  back  from  the 
land  where  the  corn  is  always  growing,  where 
the  snows  can  never  fall ;  she  has  come  back  to 
bear  you  the  word  of  the  Great  Mountain.  She 
has  come  to  tell  you  that  the  dog  who  broke 
the  oath  of  the  white  man  to  the  Onondagas 
must  suffer.  This  is  the  pledge  of  the  Great 
Mountain." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  stood  looking  with 
flashing  eyes  at  the  circle  of  chiefs.  There  was 


THE  VOICE   OF  THE   GREAT  MOUNTAIN.     271 

silence  for  a  moment,  then  a  murmur  that  rap- 
idly rose  and  swelled  into  the  loud  chatter  of 
many  voices.  Menard  laid  the  portrait  at  the 
feet  of  the  Big  Throat,  and  took  his  seat  at  the 
side  of  the  maid,  —  but  he  did  not  look  at  her 
nor  she  at  him.  Father  Claude  sat  patiently 
waiting. 

There  was  low  talk  among  the  chiefs.  Then 
a  warrior  came  and  led  the  captives  out  of 
doors,  through  a  long  passage  that  opened 
between  two  rows  of  crowding  Indians.  The 
night  was  clear,  and  the  air  was  sweet  to  their 
nostrils.  They  walked  slowly  down  the  path. 
A  group  of  young  braves  kept  within  a  few  rods. 

"  It  must  be  late,"  said  Menard,  in  a  weak 
effort  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Father  Claude. 

"  I  suppose  we  had  better  go  back  to  our 
hut?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  priest  again.  But  the  maid 
was  silent. 

They  sat  on  the  grass  plot  before  the  door, 
none  of  them  having  any  words  that  fitted  the 
moment.  Menard  brought  out  a  blanket  and 
spread  it  on  the  ground,  that  the  maid  need  not 
touch  the  dew-laden  grass. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

WHERE    THE    DEAD    SIT. 

"T^HEY   need   not   starve   us,"  said  Menard, 

*     trying  to  speak  lightly.     "  I  am  hungry." 

The  others  made  no  reply. 

"  I  will  see  what  chance  we  have  for  a  sup- 
per." 

He  got  up  and  walked  along  the  path  look- 
ing for  the  guards.  In  a  short  time  he  re- 
turned. 

"  They  will  bring  us  something.  The  senti- 
ment is  not  so  strong  against  us  now,  I  think." 

"  They  change  quickly,"  said  Father  Claude. 

"  Yes.     It  is  the  Big  Throat." 

"  And  yourself,  M'sieu,"  the  maid  said  im- 
pulsively. "  You  have  done  it,  too." 

"  I  cannot  tell.  We  do  not  know  what  the 
council  may  decide.  It  may  be  morning  before 
they  will  come  to  an  agreement.  The  Long 
Arrow  will  fight  to  the  last." 

"  And  the  other,  M'sieu,  —  the  one  who 
attacked  you,  —  he  too  will  fight  ?  " 

272 


WHERE   THE   DEAD   SIT.  2?3 

"  He  is  nothing.  When  an  Iroquois  shows 
himself  a  coward  his  influence  is  gone  forever. 
It  may  be  even  that  they  will  give  him  a  new 
name  because  of  this." 

"  There  are  times  when  a  small  accident  or 
a  careless  word  will  change  the  mind  of  a 
nation,"  said  Father  Claude.  "When  we  left 
the  council  they  were  not  unfriendly  to  us. 
But  in  an  hour  it  may  be  that  they  will  renew 
the  torture.  Until  their  hearts  have  been 
touched  by  the  Faith  there  are  but  two  motives 
behind  the  most  of  their  actions,  expediency 
and  revenge.  But  I  think  we  may  hope. 
Brother  de  Lamberville  has  told  of  many 
cases  of  torture  where  the  right  appeal  has 
brought  a  complete  change." 

So  they  talked  on,  none  having  anything  to 
say,  and  yet  each  dreading  the  silences  that 
came  so  easily  and  hung  over  them  so  heavily. 
They  could  see  the  council-house  some  dis- 
tance up  the  path.  Its  outlines  were  lost  in 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  but  through  the  crev- 
ices in  the  bark  and  logs  came  thin  lines  of 
light,  and  a  glow  shone  through  the  long  roof 
opening  upon  the  smoke  that  hung  in  the  still 
air  above  it.  Sometimes  they  could  hear  in- 
distinctly the  voice  of  a  speaker ;  but  the  words 


274  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

could  not  be  distinguished.  At  other  times 
there  was  a  low  buzz  of  voices.  The  children 
and  women  who  had  not  been  able  to  get  into 
the  building  could  be  seen  moving  about  out- 
side shutting  off  a  strip  of  light  here  and  there. 

Two  braves  came  with  some  corn  and  smoked 
meat.  Menard  set  it  down  on  a  corner  of  the 
blanket. 

"  You  will  eat,  Mademoiselle  ? " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  am  not  hungry. 
Thank  you,  M'sieu." 

"  If  I  may  ask  it,  —  if  I  may  insist,  —  it  is 
really  necessary,  Mademoiselle." 

She  reached  out,  with  a  weary  little  gesture, 
and  took  some  of  the  corn. 

"  And  you  too,  Father." 

.  They  ate  in  silence,  and  later  went  together 
to  the  spring  for  a  cool  drink. 

"  We  ought  to  make  an  effort  to  sleep," 
Menard  said  ;  and  added,  "  if  we  can.  Father, 
you  had  better  lie  down.  In  a  few  hours,  if 
there  is  no  word,  I  will  wake  you." 

"  You  will  not  forget,  M'sieu  ?  You  will  not 
let  me  sleep  too  long." 

"  No."  The  Captain  smiled.  "  No,  Father; 
you  shall  take  your  turn  at  guard  duty." 

The  priest  said  good-night,  and  went  to  a 


WHERE  THE   DEAD   SIT.  275 

knoll  not  far  from  the  door.  The  maid  had 
settled  back  against  the  logs  of  the  hut,  and 
was  gazing  at  the  trees.  Menard  sat  in  silence 
for  a  few  moments. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  know 
that  it  will  be  hard  for  you  to  rest  until  we  have 
heard;  but  — "  he  hesitated,  but  she  did  not 
help  him,  and  he  had  to  go  on,  —  "I  wish  you 
would  try." 

"  It  would  be  of  no  use,  M'sieu." 

"  I  know, —  I  know.  But  we  have  much  to 
keep  in  mind.  It  has  been  very  hard.  Any 
one  of  us  is  likely  to  break.  And  you  have  not 
been  so  used  to  this  life  as  the  Father  and  I." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said,  still  looking  at  the  elm 
branches  that  bent  almost  to  the  ground  before 
them,  "  but  when  I  lie  down,  and  close  my  eyes, 
and  let  my  mind  go,  it  seems  as  if  I  could  not 
stand  it.  It  is  not  bad  now;  I  can  be  very 
cool  now.  You  see,  M'sieu  ? "  She  turned 
toward  him  with  the  trace  of  a  smile.  "  But 
when  I  let  go  —  perhaps  you  do  not  know  how 
it  is ;  the  thoughts  that  come,  and  the  dreams, 
—  when  I  am  awake  and  yet  not  awake,  —  and 
the  feeling  that  it  is  not  worth  while,  this  strug- 
gle, even  to  what  it  may  bring  if  we  succeed. 
It  makes  the  night  a  torture,  and  the  dread  of 


276  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

another  day  is  even  worse.  It  is  better  to  stay 
awake;  it  is  better  even  to  break.  Anything 
is  better." 

Menard  looked  down  between  his  knees  at 
the  ground.  He  did  not  understand  what  it 
was  that  lay  behind  her  words.  He  started  to 
speak,  then  stopped.  After  a  little  he  found  him- 
self saying  words  that  came  to  his  lips  with  no 
effort;  in  fact,  he  did  not  seem  able  to  check 
them. 

"  It  is  not  right  that  I  should  be  here  near 
you.  I  gave  up  that  right  to-night.  I  gave  it 
up  yesterday.  I  have  been  proud,  during  these 
years  of  fighting,  that  I  was  a  soldier.  I  had 
thought,  too,  that  I  was  a  man.  It  was  hardly 
a  week  ago  that  I  rebuked  that  poor  boy  for 
what  I  have  since  done  myself.  I  promised 
Major  Provost  that  I  would  take  you  safely  to 
Frontenac.  That  I  have  failed  is  only  a  little 
thing.  I  have  said  to  you  —  no,  you  must  not 
stop  me.  We  have  gone  already  beyond  that 
point.  We  understand  now.  I  have  tried  to 
be  to  you  more  than  —  than  I  had  a  right  to 
be  while  you  were  in  my  care.  Danton  did 
not  know;  Father  Claude  does  not  know.  You 
know,  because  I  have  told  you*  I  have  shown 
you  in  a  hundred  ways." 


WHERE   THE   DEAD   SIT.  277 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  choking  voice.  "  It  is 
my  fault.  I  allowed  you." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  That  is  nothing.  It  is  not  what  you  have 
done.  It  is  not  even  what  you  think.  It  is 
what  I  shall  think  and  know  all  my  life,  —  that 
I  have  done  the  wrong  thing.  There  are  some 
of  us,  Mademoiselle,  who  have  no  home,  no  ties 
of  family,  no  love,  except  for  the  work  in  which 
we  are  slowly  building  up  a  good  name  and  a 
firm  place.  That  is  what  I  was.  Do  you  know 
what  it  is  that  makes  up  the  life  of  such  a 
man  ?  It  is  the  little  things,  the  acts  of  every 
day  and  every  week ;  and  they  must  be  honest 
and  loyal,  or  he  will  fail.  I  might  have  stayed 
in  Paris,  I  might  even  have  found  a  place  in 
Quebec  where  I  could  wear  a  bright  uniform, 
and  be  close  in  the  Governor's  favour.  I  chose 
the  other  course.  I  have  given  a  dozen  years 
to  the  harder  work,  only  to  fall  within  the  week 
from  all  that  I  had  hoped,  —  had  thought  my- 
self to  be.  And  now,  as  I  speak  to  you,  I  know 
that  I  have  lost;  that  if  you  should  smile  at  me, 
should  put  your  hand  in  mine,  everything  that 
I  have  been  working  for  would  be  nothing  to 
me.  You  would  be  the  only  thing  in  the  world." 

She  sat  motionless.     He  did  not  go  on,  and 


278  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

yet  each  moment  seemed  to  bring  them  closer 
in  understanding.  After  a  little  while  she  said 
huskily:  — 

"  You  cared  —  you  cared  like  that  ? ' 

She  was  not  looking  toward  him,  and  she 
could  not  see  him  slowly  bow  his  head ;  but 
there  was  an  answer  in  his  silence. 

"  You  cared  —  when  you  made  the  speech  —  " 

"  Yes." 

She  looked  at  the  stalwart,  bowed  figure. 
She  was  beginning  to  understand  what  he 
had  done,  that  in  his  pledge  to  the  chiefs  he 
had  triumphed  over  a  love  greater  than  she  had 
supposed  a  man  could  bear  for  a  woman. 

"  A  soldier  cannot  always  choose  his  way," 
he  was  saying.  "  I  have  never  chosen  mine. 
It  was  the  orders  of  my  superior  that  brought 
us  here,  that  brought  this  suffering  to  you.  If 
it  were  not  for  these  orders,  the  Onondagas 
would  be  my  friends,  and  because  of  that,  your 
friends.  It  has  always  been  like  this.;  I  have 
built  up  that  others  might  tear  down.  I  thought 
for  a  few  hours  that  something  else  was  to  come 
to  me.  I  should  have  known  better.  It  was 
when  you  took  the  daisy  —  "she  raised  her  hand 
and  touched  the  withered  flower.  "  I  did  not 
reason,  I  knew  I  was  breaking  my  trust,  and 


WHERE   THE   DEAD   SIT.  279 

I  did  not  care.  After  all,  perhaps  even  that 
was  the  best  thing.  It  gave  me  strength  and 
hope  to  carry  on  the  fight.  It  was  you,  then, 
—  not  New  France.  Now  the  dream  is  over, 
and  again  it  is  New  France.  It  must  be  that." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  must  be." 

"  I  have  had  wild  thoughts.  I  have  meant 
to  ask  you  to  let  me  hope,  once  this  is  over 
and  you  safe  at  Frontenac.  I  could  not  be- 
lieve that  what  comes  so  easily  to  other  men 
is  never  to  come  to  me.  I  cannot  ask  that 
now." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  a  sudden  glow  came 
into  her  eyes. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  whispered,  as  if  frightened. 

"  Why  not,"  he  repeated,  for  an  instant  meet- 
ing her  gaze.  Then  he  rose' and  stood  before 
her.  "  Because  I  have  given  an  oath  to  bring 
Captain  la  Grange  to  punishment.  You  heard 
me.  But  you  did  not  hear  what  I  promised  to 
Father  Claude.  I  have  sworn  that  what  the 
Governor  may  refuse  to  do,  I  shall  do  myself. 
I  have  set  my  hand  against  your  family." 

"  You  could  not  help  itf  M'sieu,  —  you  could 
not  help  it,"  she  said.  But  the  light  was  going 
out  of  her  eyes.  It  had  been  a  moment  of 
weakness  for  both  of  them.  She  looked  up  at 


28o  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

him,  standing  erect  in  the  faint  light,  and  the 
sight  of  his  square,  broad  shoulders  seemed  to 
give  her  strength.  He  was  the  strong  one ;  he 
had  always  been  the  strong  one.  She  rose  and 
leaned  back  -against  the  logs.  She  found  that 
she  could  face  him  bravely. 

"  He  is  your  cousin,"  he  had  just  said  in  a 
dry  voice. 

"  Yes,  he  is  my  cousin." 

Menard  was  steadily  recovering  himself. 

"  We  will  not  give  all  up.  You  know  that  I 
love  you,  —  I  hope  that  you  love  me."  He 
hesitated  for  an  instant,  but  she  gave  no  sign. 
"  We  will  keep  the  two  flowers.  We  will  al- 
ways think  of  this  day,  and  yesterday.  I  have 
no  duty  now  but  to  get  you  safe  to  Frontenac  ; 
until  you  are  there  I  must  not  speak  again. 
As  for  the  rest  of  it,  we  can  only  wait,  and 
trust  that  some  day  there  may  be  some  light." 

She  looked  at  him  sadly. 

"  You  do  not  know  ?  Father  Claude  has  not 
told  you  ? " 

Something  in  her  voice  brought  him  a  step 
nearer. 

"You  know  that  Captain  la  Grange  is   my 
cousin  ? " 
-  Yes." 


WHERE   THE   DEAD   SIT.  281 

"  You  did  not  know  that  I  am  to  be  his 
wife  ?  " 

They  stood  face  to  face,  looking  deep  into 
each  other's  eyes,  while  a  long  minute  dragged 
by,  and  the  rustling  night  sounds  and  the  call 
of  the  crickets  came  to  their  ears. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  know.  May  I 
keep  the  flower,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head.     She  could  not  speak. 

"  Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 

He  walked  away.  She  saw  him  stop  at  the 
knoll  where  the  priest  lay  asleep  on  a  bed  of 
boughs,  and  stand  for  a  moment  gazing  down 
at  him.  Then  he  went  into  the  shadows. 
From  the  crackling  of  the  twigs  she  knew  that 
he  was  walking  about  among  the  trees.  She 
sank  to  the  ground  and  listened  to  the  crickets. 
A  frog  bellowed  in  the  valley ;  perhaps  he  had 
been  calling  before  —  she  did  not  know. 

She  fell  asleep,  with  her  cheek  resting  against 
a  mossy  log.  She  did  not  know  when  Menard 
came  back  and  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  at 
her.  He  did  not  awaken  Father  Claude  until 
long  after  the  time  for  changing  the  watch. 

When  he  did,  he  walked  up  and  down  on  the 
path,  holding  the  priest's  arm,  and  trying  to 


282  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

speak.  They  had  rounded  the  large  maple 
three  times  before  he  said :  — 

"  You  did  not  tell  me,  Father." 

"  What,  my  son  ?  " 

The  Captain  stopped,  and  drawing  the  priest 
around,  pointed  toward  the  maid  as  she  slept. 

"  You  did  not  tell  me  —  why  we  are  taking 
her  to  Frontenac." 

"  No.  She  asked  it.  We  spoke  of  it  only 
once,  that  night  on  the  river.  She  was  con- 
fused, and  she  asked  me  not  to  speak.  She 
does  not  know  him.  She  has  not  seen  him 
since  she  was  a  child." 

Menard  said  nothing.  He  was  gripping 
the  priest's  arm,  and  gazing  at  the  sleeping 
maid. 

"  It  was  her  father,"  added  Father  Claude. 

Menard's  hand  relaxed. 

"Good-night,  Father."  He  walked  slowly 
toward  the  bed  on  the  knoll.  And  Father 
Claude  called  softly  after  him  :  — 

"  Good-night,  M'sieu.     Good-night." 

Menard  lay  awake.  He  could  see  the  priest 
sitting  by  the  door.  He  wondered  if  the  maid 
were  sleeping.  A  late  breeze  came  across  the 
valley,  arousing  the  leaves  and  carrying  a  soft 
whisper  from  tree  to  tree,  until  all  the  forest 


WHERE   THE    DEAD   SIT.  283 

voices  were  joined.  Lying  on  his  side  he 
could  see  indistinctly  the  council-house.  There 
were  still  the  lighted  cracks ;  the  Long  House 
was  still  in  session.  Their  decision  did  not 
now  seem  so  vital  a  matter.  The  thought  of 
the  maid  —  that  he  was  taking  her  to  be  the 
wife  of  another,  and  that  other  La  Grange  — 
had  taken  the  place  of  all  other  thoughts. 

Later  still  came  the  buzz  of  many  voices. 
Dark  forms  were  moving  about  the  council- 
house.  Menard  raised  himself  to  his  elbow, 
and  waited  until  he  saw  a  group  approaching 
on  the  path,  then  he  joined  Father  Claude. 

The  Big  Throat  led  the  little  band  of  chiefs 
to  the  hut.  They  stood,  half  a  score  of  them, 
in  a  semicircle,  their  blankets  drawn  close, 
their  faces,  so  far  as  could  be  seen  in  the  dim 
light,  stern  and  impassive.  Menard  and  the 
priest  stood  erect  and  waited. 

"  It  has  pleased  the  Great  Mountain  that  his 
voice  should  be  heard  in  the  Long  House  of 
the  Iroquois,"  said  the  Big  Throat,  in  a  low, 
calm  voice.  "  His  voice  is  gentle  as  the  breeze 
and  yet  as  strong  as  the  wind.  The  Great 
Mountain  has  before  promised  many  things  to 
the  Iroquois.  Some  of  the  promises  he  has 
broken,  some  he  has  kept.  But  the  Onondagas 


284  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

know  that  there  is  no  man  who  keeps  all  his 
promises.  They  once  thought  they  knew  such 
a  man,  but  they  were  mistaken.  White  men, 
Indians,  —  all  speak  at  night  with  a  strong  voice, 
in  the  morning  with  a  weak  voice.  Each  draws 
his  words  sometimes  off  the  top  of  his  mind, 
where  the  truth  and  the  strong  words  do  not  lie. 
The  Onondagas  are  not  children.  They  know 
the  friend  from  the  enemy.  And  they  know, 
though  he  may  sometimes  fail  them,  that  the 
Great  Mountain  is  their  friend,  their  father." 

Menard  bowed  slowly,  facing  the  chief  with 
self-control  as  firm  as  his  own. 

-'  They  know,"  the  Big  Throat  continued, 
"that  the  Indian  has  not  always  kept  the  faith 
with  the  white  man.  And  then  it  is  that  the 
Great  Mountain  has  been  a  kind  father.  If  he 
thinks  it  right  that  our  brothers,  the  Senecas, 
should  meet  with  punishment  for  breaking  the 
peace  promised  to  the  white  man  by  the  Long 
House,  the  Onondagas  are  not  the  children  to 
say  to  their  father,  '  We  care  not  if  our  brother 
has  done  wrong ;  we  will  cut  off  the  hand  that 
holds  the  whip  of  punishment.'  The  Ononda- 
gas are  men.  They  say  to  the  father, '  We  care 
not  who  it  is  that  has  done  wrong.  Though  he 
be  our  next  of  blood,  let  him  be  punished.'  This 


WHERE   THE   DEAD  SIT.  285 

is  the  word  of  the  council  to  the  Big  Buffalo 
who  speaks  with  his  father's  voice." 

Well  as  he  knew  the  Iroquois  temperament, 
Menard  could  not  keep  an  expression  of  admira- 
tion from  his  eyes.  He  knew  what  this  speech 
meant,  —  that  the  Big  Throat  alone  saw  far  into 
the  future,  saw  that  in  the  conflict  between  red 
and  white,  the  redman  must  inevitably  lose 
unless  he  crept  close  under  the  arm  that  was 
raised  to  strike  him.  It  was  no  sense  of  justice 
that  prompted  the  Big  Throat's  words ;  it  was 
the  vision  of  one  of  the  shrewdest  statesmen, 
white  or  red,  who  had  yet  played  a  part  in  the 
struggles  for  possession  of  the  New  World. 
Greatest  of  all,  only  a  master  could  have  con- 
vinced that  hot-blooded  council  that  peace  was 
the  safest  course.  The  chief  went  on :  — 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  has  spoken  well  to  the 
council.  He  has  told  the  chiefs  that  he  has  not 
been  a  traitor  to  the  brothers  who  have  for  so 
long  believed  that  his  words  were  true  words. 
The  Big  Buffalo  is  a  pine  tree  that  took  root  in 
the  lands  of  the  Onondagas  many  winters  ago. 
From  these  lands  and  these  waters,  and  the  sun 
and  winds  that  give  life  to  the  corn  and  the 
trees  of  the  Onondagas,  he  drew  his  sap  and  his 
strength.  Can  we  then  believe  that  this  pine 


286  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

tree  which  we  planted  and  which  has  grown 
tall  and  mighty  before  our  eyes,  is  not  a  pine 
tree  at  all  ?  When  a  quick-tongued  young 
brave,  who  has  not  known  the  young  tree  as  we 
have,  comes  to  the  council  and  says  that  this 
Big  Buffalo,  this  pine  tree,  is  not  a  pine  but  an 
elm  with  slippery  bark,  are  we  to  believe  him  ? 
Are  we  to  drop  from  our  minds  what  our  hearts 
and  eyes  have  long  known,  to  forget  what  we 
have  believed  ?  My  brothers  of  the  Long  House 
say  no.  They  know  that  the  pine  tree  is  a  pine 
tree.  It  may  be  that  in  the  haze  of  the  distance 
pine  and  elm  look  alike  to  young  eyes;  but 
what  a  chief  has  seen,  he  has  seen ;  what  he 
has  known,  he  has  known.  The  Big  Buffalo 
speaks  the  truth  to  his  Onondaga  brothers,  and 
with  another  sun  he  shall  be  free  to  go  to  his 
white  brothers." 

"  The  Big  Throat  has  a  faithful  heart,"  said 
Menard,  quietly.  "  He  knows  that  the  voice  of 
Onontio  is  the  voice  of  right  and  strength." 

"  The  chiefs  of  the  Onondagas  and  Cayugas 
will  sit  quietly  before  their  houses  with  their 
eyes  turned  toward  the  lands  beyond  the  great 
lake,  waiting  for  the  whisper  that  shall  come 
with  the  speed  of  the  winds  over  forests  and 
waters  to  tell  them  that  the  white  man  has  kept 


WHERE  THE   DEAD  SIT.  287 

his  promise.  When  the  dog  who  robbed  our 
villages  of  a  hundred  brave  warriors  has  been 
slain,  then  shall  they  know  that  the  Big  Buf- 
falo is  what  they  have  believed  him  to  be,  their 
brother." 

"  And  the  maid  and  the  holy  Father? " 
"  They  are  free.     The  chiefs  are  sorry  that 
a  foolish   brave  has  captured  the  white  man's 
squaw." 

Menard  and  Father  Claude  bowed  again,  and 
the  chiefs  turned  and  strode  away.  The  priest 
smiled  gently  after  them. 

"  And  now,  M'sieu,  we  may  rest  quietly." 
"  Yes.  You  lie  down,  Father  ;  it  will  not  be 
necessary  to  watch  now,  and  anyway  I  am  not 
likely  to  sleep  much."  He  walked  back  to  the 
bed  on  the  knoll,  leaving  the  priest  to  stretch 
out  across  the  doorway. 

The  elder  bushes  and  briers  crowded  close  to 
the  little  clearing  behind  the  hut,  and  Menard, 
lying  on  his  side  with  his  face  close  to  the 
ground,  watched  the  clusters  of  leaves  as  they 
gently  rustled.  He  rolled  half  over  and  stared 
up  at  the  bits  of  sky  that  showed  through  the 
trees.  It  seemed  as  if  the  great  world  were  a 
new  thing,  as  if  these  trees  and  bushes  and 
reaches  of  tufted  grass  were  a  part  of  a  new  life. 


288  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

Before,,  they  had  played  their  part  in  his  rugged 
life  without  asking  for  recognition  ;  but  to-night 
they  came  into  his  thoughts  with  their  sym- 
pathy, and  he  wondered  that  all  this  great 
world  of  summer  green  and  winter  white,  and 
of  blue  and  green  and  lead-coloured  water  could 
for  so  long  have  influenced  him  without  con- 
sciousness on  his  part.  But  his  life  had  left 
little  time  for  such  thoughts ;  to-night  he  was 
unstrung. 

Over  the  noise  of  the  leaves  and  the  trickle 
of  the  spring  sounded  a  rustle.  It  was  not  loud, 
but  it  was  a  new  sound,  and  his  eyes  sought  the 
bushes.  The  noise  came,  and  stopped ;  came, 
and  stopped.  Evidently  someone  was  creep- 
ing slowly  toward  the  hut ;  but  the  sound  was 
on  the  farther  side  of  him,  so  that  he  could 
reach  the  maid's  side  before  whoever  was 
approaching  could  cross  the  clearing. 

For  a  time  the  noise  died  altogether.  Then, 
after  a  space,  his  eyes,  sweeping  back  and  forth 
along  the  edge  of  the  brush,  rested  on  a  bright 
bit  of  metal  that  for  an  instant  caught  the  light 
of  the  sky,  probably  a  weapon  or  a  head  orna- 
ment. Menard  was  motionless.  Finally  an 
Indian  stepped  softly  out  and  stood  beside  a 
tree.  When  he  began  to  move  forward  the 


WHERE  THE   DEAD  SIT.  289 

Captain  recognized  Tegakwita,  and  he  spoke  his 
name. 

The  Indian  came  rapidly  over  the  grass  with 
his  finger  at  his  lips. 

"  Do  not  speak  loud,"  he  whispered.  "  Do 
not  wake  the  holy  Father." 

"  Why  do  you  come  creeping  upon  my  house 
at  night,  like  a  robber  ? " 

"  Tegakwita  is  sad  for  his  sister.  His  heart 
will  not  let  him  go  among  men  about  the  vil- 
lage ;  it  will  not  let  his  feet  walk  on  the  com- 
mon path." 

"  Why  do  you  come  ?  " 

"  Tegakwita  seeks  the  Big  Buffalo." 

"  It  cannot  be  for  an  honest  reason.  You 
lay  behind  the  bush.  You  saw  me  here  and 
thought  me  asleep,  but  you  did  not  approach 
honestly.  You  crept  through  the  shadows  like 
a  Huron." 

"  Tegakwita's  night  eyes  are  not  his  day 
eyes.  He  could  not  see  who  the  sleeping 
man  was.  When  he  heard  the  voice,  he  came 
quickly." 

Menard  looked  at  the  musket  that  rested  in 
the  Indian's  hand,  at  the  hatchet  and  knife  that 
hung  from  his  belt. 

"  You  are  heavily  armed,  Tegakwita.     Is  it 


29o  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

for  the  war-path  or  the  hunt  ?  Do  Onondaga 
warriors  carry  their  weapons  from  house  to 
house  in  their  own  village  ? " 

The  Indian  made  a  little  gesture  of  im- 
patience. 

"  Tegakwita  has  no  house.  His  house  has 
been  dishonoured.  He  lives  under  the  trees, 
and  carries  his  house  with  him.  All  that  he 
has  is  in  his  hand  or  his  belt.  The  Big  Buffalo 
speaks  strangely." 

Menard  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  He 
looked  up,  with  a  keen  gaze,  at  the  erect  figure 
of  the  Indian.  Finally  he  said:  — 

"  Sit  down,  Tegakwita.  Tell  me  why  you 
came." 

"  No.  Tegakwita  cannot  rest  himself  until 
his  sister  has  reached  the  Happy  Hunting- 
Ground. " 

"  Very  well,  do  as  you  like.  But  waste  no 
more  time.  What  is  it?" 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  has  been  an  Onondaga. 
He  knows  the  city  in  the  valley  where  the 
dead  sit  in  their  graves.  It  is  there  that  my 
sister  lies,  by  an  open  grave,  waiting  for  the 
farewell  word  of  him  who  alone  is  left  to 
say  farewell  to  her.  Tegakwita's  Onondaga 
brothers  will  not  gather  at  the  grave  of  a  girl 


WHERE  THE   DEAD  SIT.  291 

who  has  given  up  her  nation  for  a  white  dog. 
But  he  can  ask  the  Big  Buffalo,  who  brought 
the  white  dog  to  our  village,  to  come  to  the 
side  of  the  grave." 

"Your  memory  is  bad,  Tegakwita.  It  was 
not  I  who  brought  the  white  brave.  It  was 
you  who  brought  him,  his  two  hands  tied  with 
thongs." 

The  Indian  stood,  without  replying,  looking 
down  at  him  with  brilliant,  staring  eyes. 

Menard  spoke  again. 

"You  want  me  to  go  with  you.  You  slip 
through  the  bushes  like  a  snake,  with  your 
musket  and  your  knife  and  your  hatchet,  to 
ask  me  to  go  with  you  to  the  grave  of  your 
sister.  Do  I  speak  rightly,  Tegakwita?" 

"The  Big  Buffalo  has  understood." 

Menard  slowly  rose  and  looked  into  the 
Indian's  eyes. 

"  I  have  no  weapons,  Tegakwita.  The  chiefs 
who  have  set  me  free  have  not  yet  returned  the 
musket  which  was  taken  from  rne.  It  is  dan- 
gerous to  go  at  night  through  the  forest  with- 
out a  weapon.  Give  me  your  hatchet  and  I  will 
go  with  you." 

Tegakwita's  lip  curled  almost  imperceptibly. 

"  The  White  Chief  is  afraid  of  the  night? " 


292  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Menard,  too,  looked  scornful.  He  coolly 
waited. 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  cannot  face  the  dead  with- 
out a  hatchet  in  his  hand  ? "  said  Tegakwita. 

Menard  suddenly  sprang  forward  and 
snatched  the  hatchet  from  the  Indian's  belt. 
It  was  a  surprise,  and  the  struggle  was  brief. 
Tegakwita  was  thrown  a  step  backward.  He 
hesitated  between  struggling  for  the  hatchet 
and  striking  with  the  musket;  before  he  had 
fully  recovered  and  '  dropped  the  musket, 
Menard  had  leaped  back  and  stood  facing 
him  with  the  hatchet  in  his  right  hand. 

"  Now  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  city  of  the 
dead,  Tegakwita." 

The  Indian's  breath  was  coming  quickly,  and 
he  stood  with  clenched  fists,  taken  aback  by  the 
Captain's  quickness. 

"  Come,  I  am  ready.     Pick  up  your  musket." 

As  Tegakwita  stooped,  Menard  glanced 
toward  the  hut.  The  priest  lay  asleep  before 
the  door.  It  was  better  to  get  this  madman 
away  than  to  leave  him  free  to  prowl  about  the 
hut. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    BAD    DOCTOR. 

f 

A  T  the  edge  of  the  thicket  they  stopped  and 
*•  stood  face  to  face,  each  waiting  for  the 
other  to  pass  ahead.  Tegakwita  slightly  bowed, 
with  an  unconscious  imitation  of  the  French- 
men he  had  seen  at  Fort  Frontenac  and  Mont- 
real. 

"  Pass  on,"  said  Menard,  sternly.  "  You 
know  the  trail,  Tegakwita ;  I  do  not.  It  is  you 
who  must  lead  the  way." 

The  Indian  was  sullen,  but  he  yielded, 
plunging  forward  between  the  bushes,  and 
now  and  then,  in  the  shadow  of  some  tree, 
glancing  furtively  over  his  shoulder.  His 
manner,  the  suspicion  that  showed  plainly  in 
the  nervous  movements  of  his  head,  in  every 
motion  as  he  glided  through  thicket,  glade,  or 
strip  of  forest,  told  Menard  that  he  had  chosen 
well  to  take  the  second  place.  His  fingers 
closed  firmly  about  the  handle  of  the  hatchet. 


294  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

That  he  could  throw  at  twenty  paces  to  the 
centre  of  a  sapling,  no  one  knew  better  than 
Tegakwita. 

The  city  of  the  dead  lay  in  a  hollow  at  ten 
minutes'  walk  from  the  village.  Generations 
ago  the  trees  had  been  cleared,  and  no  bush  or 
sapling  had  been  allowed  a  foothold  on  this 
ground.  The  elms  and  oaks  and  maples  threw 
their  shadows  across  the  broad  circle,  and  each 
breath  of  wind  set  them  dancing  over  the 
mounds  where  many  an  hundred  skeletons 
crouched  side  by  side,  under  the  grass-grown 
heaps  of  earth,  their  rusted  knives  and  hatchets 
and  their  mouldy  blankets  by  their  sides.  No 
man  came  here,  save  when  a  new  heap  of  yel- 
low earth  lay  fresh-turned  in  the  sun,  and  a 
long  line  of  dancing,  wailing  redmen,  led  by 
their  howling  doctors,  followed  some  body  that 
had  come  to  claim  its  seat  among  the  skeletons. 

Tegakwita  paused  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing, 
and  looked  around  with  that  furtive  quickness. 
Menard  came  slowly  to  his  side. 

"  You  will  take  your  weapons  to  the  grave  ?  " 
asked  Menard,  very  quietly,  but  with  a  sugges- 
tion that  the  other  understood. 

"  Yes.  Tegakwita  has  no  place  for  his  weap- 
ons. He  must  carry  them  where  he  goes." 


THE   BAD   DOCTOR.  295 

"  We  can  leave  them  here.  The  leaves  will 
hide  them.  I  will  put  the  hatchet  under  this 
log."  He  made  a  motion  of  dropping  the 
hatchet,  closely  watching  the  Indian ;  then  he 
straightened,  for  Tegakwita's  right  hand  held 
the  musket,  and  his  left  rested  lightly  on  his 
belt,  not  a  span  from  his  long  knife. 

"  The  White  Chief  knows  the  danger  of  leav- 
ing weapons  to  tempt  the  young  braves.  He 
finds  it  easy  to  take  the  chance  with  Tegak- 
wita's hatchet." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Menard,  sternly.  "  Lead 
the  way." 

They  walked  slowly  between  the  mounds. 
Menard  looked  carefully  about,  but  in  the 
uncertain  light  he  could  see  no  sign  of  a 
new  opening  in  any  of  them.  When  they 
had  passed  the  centre  he  stopped,  and  said 
quietly :  — 

"  Tegakwita." 

The  Indian  turned. 

"  Where  is  the  grave  ?  " 

"  It  is  beyond,  close  to  the  great  oak." 

"Ah!" 

They  went  on.  The  great  oak  was  in  a 
dense,  deep-shadowed  place,  at  the  edge  of  the 
circle.  A  little  to  one  side,  close  to  the  crowd- 


296  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

ing  thicket,  was  a  small,  new  mound.  Looking 
now  at  Tegakwita,  Menard  could  see  that  his 
front  was  stained  with  the  soil.  Probably  he 
had  spent  the  day  working  on  the  mound  for 
his  sister.  While  Menard  stood  at  one  side,  he 
went  to  a  bush  that  encroached  a  yard  on  the 
sacred  ground  and  drew  out  a  number  of  pres- 
ents, with  necessary  articles  and  provisions  to 
stay  the  soul  on  its  long  journey  to  the  Happy 
Hunting-Ground.  It  was  at  the  end  of  Menard's 
tongue  to  repeat  Tegakwita's  remark  about 
hiding  the  weapons,  but  he  held  back  and 
stood  silently  waiting. 

"  Come,"  said  the  Indian. 

He  parted  the  bushes,  drew  away  a  heavy  cov- 
ering of  boughs,  and  there,  wrapped  in  Tegak- 
wita's finest  blanket,  lay  the  body  of  the  Indian 
girl.  Menard  stood  over  it,  looking  down  with 
a  sense  of  pity  he  had  never  before  felt  for  an 
Indian.  He  could  not  see  her  face,  for  it  was 
pressed  to  the  ground,  but  the  clotted  scalp 
showed  indistinctly  in  the  shadow.  He  sud- 
denly raised  his  eyes  to  Tegakwita,  who  stood 
opposite. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  the  white  brave?" 
he  said  in  fierce,  low  tones.  "  What  have  you 
done  with  him  ?  " 


THE   BAD   DOCTOR.  297 

Tegakwita  raised  one  arm  and  swept  it  about 
in  a  quarter  circle. 

"  Ask  the  vultures  that  come  when  a  man 
falls,  ask  the  beasts  that  wait  for  everyone,  ask 
the  dogs  of  the  village.  They  can  tell  you, 
not  I." 

Menard's  hands  closed  tightly,  and  a  wild 
desire  came  to  him  to  step  across  the  body  and 
choke  the  man  who  had  killed  Danton ;  but  in 
a  moment  he  was  himself.  He  had  nothing  to 
gain  by  violence.  And  after  all,  the  Indian 
had  done  no  more  than  was,  in  his  eyes,  right. 
He  bent  down ;  and  together  they  carried  the 
body  to  the  grave,  close  at  hand.  Tegakwita 
placed  her  sitting  upright  in  the  hole  he  had 
dug.  By  her  side  he  placed  the  pots  and  dishes 
and  knives  which  she  had  used  in  preparing  the 
food  they  two  had  eaten.  He  set  the  provisions 
before  her  and  in  her  lap ;  and  drawing  a  twist 
of  tobacco  from  his  bosom,  he  laid  it  at  her  feet 
to  win  her  the  favour  and  kindness  of  his  own 
Manitou  on  her  journey.  After  each  gift  he 
stood  erect,  looking  up  at  the  sky  with  his  arms 
stretched  out  above  his  head ;  and  at  these 
moments  his  simple  dignity  impressed  Menard. 
But  there  were  other  moments,  when,  in  stoop- 
ing, Tegakwita  would  glance  about  with  ner- 


298  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

vous,  shifting  eyes,  as  if  fearing  some  interrup- 
tion. His  musket  was  always  in  his  hand  or 
by  his  side.  Menard  took  it  that  he  still  feared 
the  hatchet. 

Then  at  last  the  ceremony  was  done,  and 
the  Indian  with  his  bare  hands  threw  the  earth 
over  the  hole  in  the  mound.  Still  looking  ner- 
vously from  bush  to  bush,  his  hands  began  to 
move  more  slowly ;  then  he  paused,  and  sat  by 
the  mound,  looking  up  with  a  hesitancy  that 
recognized  the  need  of  an  explanation  for  the 
delay. 

"  Tegakwita's  arms  are  weary." 

"  Are  they  ?  "  said  Menard,  dryly. 

"  Tegakwita  has  not  slept  for  many  suns." 

"  Neither  have  I." 

The  Indian  started  as  a  rustle  came  from  the 
forest.  Menard  watched  him  curiously.  The 
whole  proceeding  was  too  unusual  to  be  easily 
understood.  Tegakwita's  nervous  manner,  his 
request  that  the  Captain  accompany  him  to  the 
mound,  the  weapons  that  never  left  his  side,  — 
these  might  be  the  signs  of  a  mind  driven  to 
madness  by  his  sister's  act ;  but  Menard  did  not 
recollect,  from  his  own  observation  of  the  Iro- 
quois  character,  that  love  for  a  sister  was  a 
marked  trait  among  the  able-bodied  braves. 


THE   BAD   DOCTOR.  2gg 

Perhaps  it  was  delay  that  he  sought.  At  this 
thought  Menard  quietly  moved  farther  from  the 
undergrowth.  Tegakwita's  quick  eyes  followed 
the  movement. 

"  Come,"  said  the  Captain, "  the  night  is  nearly 
gone.  I  cannot  wait  longer." 

"  Tegakwita  has  worked  hard.  His  heart  is 
sick,  his  body  lame.  Will  the  Big  Buffalo 
help  his  Onondaga  brother  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  Indian  rose  with  too  prompt  relief. 

"  Your  muscles  need  only  the  promise  of 
help  to  give  them  back  their  spring,  Tegak- 
wita." 

"  The  White  Chief  speaks  with  a  biting 
tongue." 

"  You  have  been  speaking  with  a  lying 
tongue.  You  think  I  do  not  know  why  you  have 
brought  me  here;  you  think  I  do  not  under- 
stand the  evil  thoughts  that  fill  your  mind. 
You  are  a  coward,  Tegakwita.  But  you.  will 
not  succeed  to-night." 

The  ill-concealed  fright  that  came  into  the 
Indian's  face  and  manner  told  Menard  that  he 
was  not  wide  of  the  mark.  He  began  to  under- 
stand. Tegakwita  wished  to  get  him  at  work 
and  off  his  guard,  —  the  rest  would  be  simple. 


3oo  THE   ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC. 

And  as  Menard  well  knew,  more  than  one 
brave  of  the  Onondagas,  who  had  known  him 
both  as  friend  and  enemy,  would  shrink  when' 
the  moment  came  to  attack  the  Big  Buffalo 
single-handed,  even  though  taking  him  at  a 
disadvantage.  Now  Tegakwita  was  hesitat- 
ing, and  struggling  to  keep  his  eyes  from  the 
thicket. 

"  Yes,  I  will  help  you.  We  will  close  this 
matter  now,  and  go  back  to,  the  village  where 
your  cowardly  hands  will  be  tied  by  fear  of 
your  chiefs.  Drop  your  musket." 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  speaks  in  anger.  Does  he 
think  to  disarm  Tegakwita  that  he  may  kill 
him  ? " 

"  Lay  your  musket  on  the  ground  before  us. 
Then  I  will  drop  the  hatchet." 

Tegakwita  stepped  around  the  grave,  and 
leaning  the  musket  across  a  stone  stood  by  it. 
Menard's  voice  was  full  of  contempt. 

"  You  need  not  fear.  The  Big  Buffalo  keeps 
his  word."  He  tossed  the  hatchet  over  the 
grave,  and  stood  unarmed.  "  Drop  your 
knife." 

Tegakwita  hesitated.  Menard  took  a  step 
forward,  and  the  knife  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Come.     We   will  work   side   by  side."     He 


THE   BAD   DOCTOR.  301 

was  surprised  at  Tegakwita's  slinking  man- 
ner. He  wondered  if  this  Indian  could  by 
some  strange  accident  have  been  given  a  tem- 
perament so  fine  that  sorrow  could  unman  him. 
To  the  Iroquois,  gifted  as  they  were  with  rea- 
soning power,  life  held  little  sentiment.  Curi- 
ously enough,  as  Menard  stood  in  the  light  of 
the  young  moon  watching  the  warrior  come 
slowly  around  the  grave,  which  still  showed 
above  the  earth  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the 
dead  girl,  he  found  himself  calling  up  the  rare 
instances  he  had  known  of  a  real  affection  be- 
tween Indians. 

Tegakwita  stood  by  him,  and  without  a  word 
they  stooped  and  set  to  work,  side  by  side, 
scraping  the  earth  with  their  fingers  over  the 
body.  Tegakwita  found  a  dozen  little  ways  to 
delay.  Menard  steadily  lost  patience. 

"  Tegakwita  has  forgotten,"  said  the  Indian, 
standing  up;  "he  has  not  offered  the  present 
to  his  sister's  Oki." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Menard,  roughly. 

Tegakwita's  voice  trembled,  as  if  he  knew 
that  he  was  pressing  the  white  man  too  far. 

"  The  grave  must  be  opened.  It  will  not 
take  long." 

It  came  to  Menard  in  a  flash.     The  many  de- 


302  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

lays,  the  anxious  glances  toward  the  thicket,  — 
these  meant  that  others  were  coming.  Some- 
thing delayed  them ;  Tegakwita  must  hold  the 
Big  Buffalo  till  they  arrived.  With  never  a 
word  Menard  sprang  over  the  grave ;  but  the 
Indian  was  quicker,  and  his  hand  was  the  first 
on  the  musket.  Then  they  fought,  each  strug- 
gling to  free  his  hands  from  the  other's  grasp, 
rolling  over  and  over, — now  half  erect,  tramp- 
ing on  the  soft  mound,  now  wrestling  on  the 
harder  ground  below.  At  last  Menard,  as  they 
whirled  and  tumbled  past  the  weapons,  snatched 
the  knife.  Tegakwita  caught  his  wrist,  and 
then  it  was  nigh  to  stabbing  his  own  thigh  as 
they  fought  for  it.  Once  he  twisted  his  hand 
and  savagely  buried  the  blade  in  the  Indian's 
side.  Tegakwita  caught  his  breath  and  rallied, 
and  the  blood  of  the  one  was  on  them  both. 
At  last  a  quick  wrench  bent  the  Indian's  wrist 
back  until  it  almost  snapped,  —  Menard  thought 
that  it  had,  —  and  the  stained  blade  went  home 
once,  and  again,  and  again,  until  the  arms  that 
had  clung  madly  about  the  white  man  slipped 
off,  and  lay  weakly  on  the  ground. 

Menard  was  exhausted.  The  dirt  and  blood 
were  in  his  hair  and  eyes  and  ears.  He  was 
rising  stiffly  to  his  knees  when  the  rush  of 


THE  BAD   DOCTOR.  303 

Indians  came  from  the  bushes.     He  could  not 
see  them  clearly,  —  could  hardly  hear  them,  - 
though  he  fought  until  a  musket-stock  swung 
against    his   head    and   stretched    him  on    the 
ground. 

When  he  recovered  they  were  standing 
about  him,  half  a  score  of  them,  waiting  to 
see  if  he  still  had  life.  He  raised  a  bruised 
arm  to  wipe  his  eyes,  but  a  rough  hand  caught 
it  and  drew  a  thong  tightly  about  his  wrists. 
Slowly  his  senses  awakened,  and  he  could  see 
indistinctly  the  silent  forms, — some  standing 
motionless,  others  walking  slowly  about.  It 
was  strange.  His  aching  head  had  not  the 
wit  to  meet  with  the  situation.  Then  they 
jerked  him  to  his  feet,  and  with  a  stout  brave 
at  each  elbow  and  others  crowding  about  on 
every  side,  he  was  dragged  off  through  the 
bushes. 

For  a  long  time  the  silent  party  pushed  for- 
ward. They  were  soon  clear  of  the  forest, 
passing  through  rich  wild  meadows  that  lifted 
the  scent  of  clover,  the  fresher  for  the  dew  that 
lay  wet  underfoot.  There  were  other  thickets 
and  other  forests,  and  many  a  reach  of  meadow, 
all  rolling  up  and  down  over  the  gentle  hills. 
Menard  tried  to  gather  his  wits,  but  his  head 


304  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

reeled ;  and  the  struggle  to  keep  his  feet  mov- 
ing steadily  onward  was  enough  to  hold  his 
mind.  He  knew  that  he  should  watch  the 
trail  closely,  to  know  where  they  were  taking 
him,  but  he  was  not  equal  to  the  effort.  At 
last  the  dawn  came,  gray  and  depressing,  creep- 
ing with  deadly  slowness  on  the  trail  of  the  re- 
treating night.  The  sky  was  dull  and  heavy, 
and  a  mist  clung  about  the  party,  leaving  little 
beads  of  moisture  on  deerskin  coats  and 
fringed  leggings  and  long,  brown  musket  bar- 
rels. The  branches  drooped  from  the  trees, 
blurred  by  the  mist  and  the  half  dark  into 
strange  shapes  along  the  trail. 

The  day  was  broad  awake  when  Menard 
gave  way.  His  muscles  had  been  tried  to  the 
limit  of  his  endurance  during  these  many  des- 
perate days  and  sleepless  nights  that  he  had 
thought  to  be  over.  He  fell  loosely  forward. 
For  a  space  they  dragged  him,  but  the  burden 
was  heavy,  and  the  chief  ordered  a  rest.  The 
band  of  warriors  scattered  about  .to  sleep  under 
the  trees,  leaving  a  young  brave  to  watch  the 
Big  Buffalo,  who  slept  motionless  where  they 
had  dropped  him  in  the  long  grass  close  at 
hand.  On  every  side  were  hills,  shielding 
them  from  the  view  of  any  chance  straggler 


THE  BAD   DOCTOR.  305 

from  the  Onondaga  villages,  unless  he  should 
clamber  down  the  short  slopes  and  search  for 
them  in  the  mist.  A  stream  tumbled  by,  not 
a  dozen  yards  from  Menard  and  his  yawning 
guardian. 

When  he  awoke,  the  mist  had  thinned,  but 
the  sky  showed  no  blue.  Beneath  the  gray 
stretch  that  reached  from  hill  crest  to  hill  crest, 
light  foaming  clouds  scudded  across  from  east 
to  west,  though  there  was  little  wind  near  the 
ground.  The  Captain  listened  for  a  time  to 
the  noise  of  the  stream  before  looking  about. 
He  changed  his  position,  and  rheumatic  pains 
shot  through  his  joints.  For  the  second  time 
in  his  life  he  realized  that  he  was  growing  old ; 
and  with  this  thought  came  another.  What 
sort  of  a  soldier  was  he  if  he  could  not  pass 
through  such  an  experience  without  paying 
the  old  man's  penalty.  To  be  sure  his  head 
was  battered  and  bruised,  and  scattered  over 
his  shoulders  and  arms  and  hips  were  a  dozen 
small  wounds  to  draw  in  the  damp  from  the 
grass,  but  he  did  not  think  of  these.  In  his 
weak,  half-awake  state,  he  was  discouraged, 
with  the  feeling  that  the  best  of  his  life  was 
past.  And  the  thought  that  he,  a  worn  old 
soldier,  could  have  dreamed  what  he  had 


3o6  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

dreamed  of  the  maid  and  her  love  sank  down 
on  his  heart  like  a  weight.  But  this  thought 
served  another  purpose :  to  think  of  the  maid 
was  to  think  of  her  danger ;  and  this  was  to  be 
the  alert  soldier  again,  with  a  plan  for  every 
difficulty  as  long  as  he  had  life  in  his  body. 
And  so,  before  the  mood  could  drag  him  down, 
he  was  himself  again. 

Most  of  the  Indians  were  asleep,  sprawling 
about  under  the  trees  near  the  water.  The 
warrior  guarding  Menard  appeared  to  be  little 
more  than  a  youth.  He  sat  with  his  knees 
drawn  up  and  his  head  bowed,  his  blanket 
pulled  close  around  him,  and  his  oily  black 
hair  tangled  about  his  eyes.  Menard  lay  on 
his  back  looking  at  the  Indian  through  half- 
closed  eyes. 

"  Well,"  he  said  in  a  low,  distinct  voice, 
"  you  have  me  now,  haven't  you  ? " 

The  Indian  gave  him  a  quick  glance,  but 
made  no  reply. 

"  It  is  all  right,  my  brother.  Do  not  turn  your 
eyes  to  me,  and  nothing  will  be  seen.  I  can 
speak  quietly.  A  nod  of  your  head  will  tell  me 
if  anyone  comes  near.  Do  you  understand?" 

Again  the  little  eyes  squinted  through  the 
hanging  locks  of  hair. 


THE   BAD   DOCTOR.  307 

"  You  do  understand  ?  Very  well.  You 
know  who  I  am?  I  am  the  Big  Buffalo.  I 
killed  half  a  score  of  your  bravest  warriors  in 
their  own  village.  Do  you  think  these  thongs 
can  hold  the  Big  Buffalo,  who  never  has  been 
heli  by  thongs,  who  is  the  hardest  fighter 
and  the  boldest  hunter  of  all  the  lands  from 
the  Mohawk  to  the  Great  River  of  the  Illi- 
nois? Listen,  I  will  tell  you  how  many 
canoes  of  furs  the  Big  Buffalo  has  in  the 
north  country  ;  I  will  tell  you  —  " 

The  Indian's  head  nodded  almost  impercep- 
tibly. A  yawning  brave  was  walking  slowly 
along  the  bank  of  the  stream,  gathering  wood 
for  a  fire.  He  passed  to  a  point  a  few  rods 
below  the  prisoner,  then  came  back  and  dis- 
appeared among  the  trees. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Menard,  keeping  his 
voice  at  such  a  low  pitch  that  the  guard  had  to 
bend  his  head  slightly  toward  him,  "of  the 
great  bales  of  beaver  that  are  held  safe  in  the 
stores  of  the  Big  Buffalo.  Does  my  brother 
understand  ?  Does  he  see  that  these  bales  are 
for  him,  that  he  will  be  as  rich  as  the  greatest 
chief  among  all  the  chiefs  of  the  Long  House? 
No  brave  shall  have  such  a  musket,  —  with  a 
long,  straight  barrel  that  will  send  a  ball  to 


3o8  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

the  shoulder  of  a  buffalo  farther  than  the 
flight  of  three  arrows.  His  blanket  shall  be 
the  brightest  in  Onondaga ;  his  many  clothes, 
his  knives,  his  hatchets,  his  collars  of  wam- 
pum shall  have  no  equal.  He  can  buy  the 
prettiest  wives  in  the  nation.  Does  my  brother 
understand  ?  " 

The  fire  had  been  lighted,  and  a  row  of  wild 
hens  turned  slowly  on  wooden  spits  over  the 
flames.  One  by  one  the  warriors  were  rousing 
and  stirring  about  among  the  trees.  There 
were  shouts  and  calls,  and  the  grumbling  talk 
of  the  cooks  as  they  held  the  long  spits  and 
turned  their  faces  away  from  the  smoke,  which 
rose  but  slowly  in  the  damp,  heavy  air.  Me- 
nard  lay  with  his  eyes  closed,  as  if  asleep ;  even 
his  lips  hardly  moved  as  he  talked. 

"  My  brother  must  think  quickly,  for  the  time 
is  short.  All  that  I  promise  he  will  have,  if  he 
will  be  a  friend  to  the  Big  Buffalo.  And  every 
Onondaga  knows  that  the  word  of  the  Big 
Buffalo  is  a  word  that  has  never  been  broken. 
My  brother  will  be  a  friend.  He  will  watch 
close,  and  to-night,  when  the  dark  has  come, 
he  will  let  his  knife  touch  the  thongs  that 
hold  the  White  Chief  captive." 

The    Indian's   face  was  without  expressioa 


THE  BAD   DOCTOR.  309 

Menard  watched  him  closely,  but  could  not 
tell  whether  his  offer  was  taking  effect.  What 
he  had  no  means  of  knowing  was  that  since  the 
battle  at  the  hut,  and  the  short  fight  in  the 
council-house,  the  younger  braves  had  centred 
their  superstitions  on  him.  It  was  thought 
that  his  body  was  occupied  by  some  bad  spirit 
that  gave  him  the  strength  of  five  men,  and  that 
he  had  been  sent  to  their  village  by  a  devil  to 
l.ure  the  warriors  into  the  hands  of  the  French. 
These  were  not  the  open  views  that  would  have 
been  heard  at  a  council ;  they  were  the  fears  of 
the  untried  warriors,  who  had  not  the  vision 
to  understand  the  diplomacy  of  the  chiefs,  nor 
the  position  in  the  village  to  give  them  a  pub- 
lic hearing.  They  had  talked  together  in  low 
tones,  feeding  the  common  fear,  until  a  few 
words  from  the  Long  Arrow  had  aroused  them 
into  action.  And  so  this  guard  was  between 
two  emotions:  the  one  a  lust  for  wealth  and 
position  in  the  tribe,  common  to  every  Indian 
and  in  most  cases  a  stronger  motive  than  any 
of  the  nobler  sentiments;  the  other  an  un- 
reasoning fear  of  this  "bad  doctor,"  the  fear 
that  to  aid  him  or  to  accept  furs  from  him 
would  poison  the  ears  of  his  own  Oki,  and 
destroy  his  chance  of  a  name  and  wealth  dur- 


310  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

ing  his  life,  and  of  a  long,  glorious  hunt  after 
death. 

"  My  brother  shall  come  with  me  to  the  land 
of  the  white  men,  where  there  is  no  trouble,  — 
where  he  shall  have  a  great  lodge  like  the  white 
chiefs,  with  coloured  pictures  in  gold  frames,  and 
slaves  to  prepare  his  food.  He  shall  be  a  great 
chief  among  white  men  and  redmen,  and  his 
stores  shall  be  filled  to  the  doors  with  furs  of 
beaver  and  seal." 

Menard's  voice  was  so  low  and  deliberate 
that  the  Indian  did  not  question  his  statements. 
He  was  tempted  more  strongly  than  he  had 
ever  been  tempted  before,  but  with  the  desire 
grew  the  fear  of  the  consequences.  As  for  the 
Captain,  he  was  clutching  desperately  at  this 
slender  chance  that  lay  to  his  hand. 

"  I  have  given  my  brother  his  choice  of 
greater  power  than  was  ever  before  offered  to 
a  youth  who  has  yet  to  win  his  name.  The 
stroke  of  a  knife  will  do  it.  No  one  shall 
know,  for  the  Big  Buffalo  can  be  trusted.  My 
brother  has  it  before  him  to  be  a  red  chief  or 
a  white  chief,  as  he  may  wish.  The  warriors 
are  near,  —  the  day  grows  bright ;  he  must 
speak  quickly." 

There  was  a 'call  from  the  group  by  the  fire. 


THE   BAD    DOCTOR.  311 

and  the  young  Indian  gave  a  little  start,  and 
slowly  rising,  walked  away,  yielding  his  place 
as  guard  to  an  older  man.  Menard  rolled  over 
and  pressed  his  face  to  the  ground  as  if  weary ; 
he  could  then  watch  the  youth  through  the 
grass  as  he  moved  to  the  fire,  but  in  a  moment 
he  lost  sight  of  him.  The  new  guard  was  a 
stern-faced  brave,  and  his  appearance  promised 
no  help ;  so  the  Captain,  having  done  all  that 
could  be  done  at  the  moment,  tried  to  get 
another  sleep,  struggling  to  put  thoughts  of 
the  maid  from  his  mind.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
she  was  safe  at  the  village. 

Meantime  the  youth,  after  a  long  struggle 
with  the  temptings  of  the  bad  doctor,  yielded 
to  his  superstition,  and  sought  the  Long  Arrow, 
who  lay  on  the  green  bank  of  the  stream.  In 
a  few  moments  the  story  was  told,  and  the 
chief,  with  a  calm  face  but  with  twinkling  eyes, 
came  to  the  prisoner  and  stood  looking  down 
at  him. 

"The  White  Chief  is  glad  to  be  with  his 
Onondaga  brothers?"  he  said  in  his  quiet 
voice. 

Menard  slowly  raised  his  eyes,  and  looked 
coolly  at  the  chief  without  replying. 

"  The  tongue  of  the  Big  Buffalo  is  weary  per 


3i2  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

haps  ?  It  has  moved  so  many  times  to  tell  the 
Onondaga  what  is  not  true,  that  now  it  asks 
for  rest.  The  Long  Arrow  is  kind.  He  will 
not  seek  to  move  it  again.  For  another  sleep 
it  shall  lie  at  rest;  then  it  may  be  that  our 
braves  shall  find  a  way  to  stir  it." 

Menard  rolled  over,  with  an  expression  of 
contempt,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"  The  Long  Arrow  was  sorry  that  his  white 
brother  was  disappointed  at  the  torture.  Per- 
haps he  will  have  better  fortune  after  he  has 
slept  again.  Already  have  the  fires  been  lighted 
that  shall  warm  the  heart  of  the  White  Chief. 
And  he  shall  have  friends  to  brighten  him. 
His  squaw,  too,  shall  feel  the  glow  of  the  roar- 
ing fire,  and  the  gentle  hands  of  the  Onondaga 
warriors,  who  do  not  forget  the  deaths  of  their 
own  blood." 

Menard  lay  still. 

"  Another  sleep,  my  brother,  and  the  great 
White  Chief  who  speaks  with  the  voice  of 
Onontio  shall  be  with  his  friends.  He  shall 
hear  the  sweet  voice  of  his  young  squaw 
through  the  smoke  that  shall  be  her  garment. 
He  shall  hear  the  prayers  of  his  holy  Father 
by  his  side,  and  shall  know  that  his  spirit  is 
safe  with  the  Great  Spirit  who  is  not  strong 


THE   BAD   DOCTOR.  313 

enough  to  give  him  his  life  when  the  Long 
Arrow  takes  it  away." 

There  was  still  a  mad  hope  that  the  chief 
spoke  lies,  that  the  maid  and  Father  Claude 
were  safe.  True  or  false,  the  Long  Arrow 
would  surely  talk  thus ;  for  the  Iroquois  were 
as  skilled  in  the  torments  of  the  mind  as  of 
the  body.  He  was  conscious  that  the  keen 
voice  was  going  on,  but  he  did  not  follow 
what  it  said.  Again  he  was  going  over  and 
over  in  his  mind  all  the  chances  of  escape. 
It  might  be  that  the  youth  had  been  moved 
by  his  offer.  But  at  that  moment  he  heard 
the  Long  Arrow  saying :  — 

"...  Even  before  his  death  the  Big  Buffalo 
must  lie  as  he  has  always  lied.  His  tongue 
knows  not  the  truth.  He  thinks  to  deceive 
our  young  braves  with  talk  of  his  furs  and 
his  lodges  and  his  power  in  the  land  of  the 
white  men.  But  our  warriors  know  the  truth. 
They  know  that  the  Big  Buffalo  has  no  store 
of  furs,  no  great  lodges,  —  that  he  lives  in 
the  woods  with  only  a  stolen  musket,  where  he 
can  by  his  lies  capture  the  peaceful  hunters  of 
the  Onondagas  to  make  them  the  slaves  of  his 
Chief- Across-the- Water." 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

AT   THE    LONG   LAKE. 

JV/IENARD  again  dropped  to  sleep.  Wh'en 
*  T  *  the  day  had  nearly  reached  its  middle,  he 
was  aroused  by  two  warriors,  who  pulled  him 
roughly  to  his  feet.  The  band  had  evidently 
been  astir  for  some  moments.  A  few  braves 
were  extinguishing  the  fire  with  clumps  of  sod, 
while  the  others  packed  in  their  blankets  what 
had  been  left  from  the  morning  meal,  or  looked 
to  the  spots  of  rust  which  the  damp  had 
brought  to  knives  and  muskets.  The  Long 
Arrow  came  over  to  inspect  the  thongs  that 
held  Menard's  wrists ;  he  had  not  forgotten 
his  attack  on  his  guards  on  the  morning  of  the 
torture.  And  with  a  precaution  that  brought 
a  half  smile  to  the  prisoner's  face,  he  posted 
a  stout  warrior  on  each  side,  in  addition  to 
those  before  and  behind.  Then  they  set  out 
over  the  hills,  wading  through  a  great  tum- 
bling meadow  where  their  feet  sank  deep  into 


AT  THE    LONG    LAKE.  315 

the  green  and  yellow  and  white  that  June  had 
spread  over  the  open  lands  of  the  Iroquois. 
Overhead  the  sky,  though  still  clouded,  was 
breaking,  giving  little  glimpses  of  clear  blue. 

As  they  neared  the  crest  of  the  first  hill,  the 
Captain  looked  back  over  his  shoulder.  The 
sun  had  at  last  broken  through  to  the  earth, 
and  a  great  band  of  yellow  light  was  moving 
swiftly  across  the  valley.  Before  it,  all  the 
ground  was  sombre  in  its  dark  green  and  its 
heavy  moisture ;  behind  lay  a  stretch  of  golden 
sunshine,  rounding  over  the  farther  hills  in 
great  billows  of  grass  and  flowers  and  cluster- 
ing trees,  glistening  with  dew  and  glowing  with 
the  young  health  of  the  summer.  Up  the  hill- 
side came  the  sunlight ;  and  then  in  a  moment 
it  had  passed  them,  and  the  air  was  warm  and 
sweet. 

Menard  looked  at  the  sun  and  then  back 
across  the  valley  to  get  his  direction.  He 
saw  that  the  party  was  moving  a  little  to  the 
south  of  west.  This  line  of  march  should  take 
them  through  the  Cayuga  country,  —  a  natural 
move  on  the  part  of  the  Long  Arrow,  for  the 
Cayugas  were  closer  to  the  scene  of  the  fight- 
ing than  the  Onondagas,  and  therefore  would 
be  less  likely  to  interfere  with  the  persecution 


3i 6  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

of  a  Frenchman,  particularly  before  their  chiefs 
should  return  from  the  council. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  they  came  to  a  slow- 
moving  stream,  the  outlet  of  an  inland  lake. 
By  the  basin-shape  of  the  end  of  the  lake,  he 
recognized  it  as  one  that  lay  directly  between 
Onondaga  and  the  Long  Lake  of  the  Cayu- 
gas.  On  the  bank  of  the  little  river,  under  the 
matted  foliage,  the  chief  signalled  a  halt,  and 
the  warriors  threw  themselves  on  the  ground. 
Menard  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  beech  whose  roots 
dipped  in  the  water,  and  for  the  hundredth 
time  since  the  sun  had  risen  he  cast  about  for 
some  chance  at  escape.  The  thongs  about  his 
wrists  were  tied  by  skilful  hands.  He  tried  to 
reach  the  knot  with  his  fingers,  but  could  not. 
His  guards  were  alert  to  every  motion ;  they 
lay  on  either  side,  and  he  could  not  lift  his 
eyes  without  meeting  the  sullen  glance  of  one 
or  the  other.  He  was  about  ready  to  submit, 
trusting  to  his  wits  to  seize  the  first  opportu- 
nity that  should  come ;  for  after  all,  to  worry 
would  strain  his  nerves,  and  now,  if  at  any 
time,  his  nerves  and  his  strength  were  needed. 
When  at  last  he  reached  this  point  of  view,  he 
lay  back  on  the  weed-grown  earth  and  went  to 
sleep. 


AT  THE    LONG    LAKE.  3I? 

An  hour  later  he  was  aroused  for  another 
start.  Night  came  while  they  were  on  the 
way,  but  they  pushed  steadily  forward,  and 
within  a  few  hours  they  reached  the  Long 
Lake.  Instead  of  stopping,  however,  the  Long 
Arrow  headed  to  the  south  along  the  bank  of 
the  lake.  For  a  space  it  was  hard  going 
through  the  interwoven  bushes  and  briers  that 
tore  even  Menard's  tough  skin.  The  moon 
was  in  the  sky,  and  here  and  there  he  caught 
glimpses  of  the  lake  lying  still  and  bright. 
They  saw  no  signs  of  life  save  for  the  flitting 
bats,  and  the  owls  that  called  weirdly  through 
the  reaches  of  the  forest.  After  another  hour 
they  found  a  trail  which  led  them  down  close 
to  the  water,  and  at  last  to  a  half-cleared  space, 
rank  and  wild  with  weed  and  thistle,  and  with 
rotting  heaps  where  lay  the  trunks  of  trees, 
felled  a  generation  earlier.  Scattered  about 
the  outer  edge  of  the  clearing,  close  to  the 
circle  of  trees,  were  a  few  bark  huts,  with 
roofs  sagging  and  doors  agape.  One  or  two 
were  rivalled  in  height  by  the  weeds  that 
choked  their  windows.  As  Menard  stood 
between  his  guards  under  the  last  tree  on  the 
trail,  looking  at  the  deserted  village  where  the 
frightened  bats  rose  and  wheeled,  and  the  moon- 


3i 8  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

light  streamed  on  broken  roofs,  he  began  to 
understand.  The  Long  Arrow  had  found  a 
place  where  he  could  carry  out  his  vengeance 
undisturbed. 

Other  forms  had  risen  from  the  weeds  to 
greet  the  party.  Looking  more  closely,  Menard 
saw  that  a  group  of  Indians  were  dragging  logs 
for  a  fire.  Evidently  this  was  a  rendezvous  for 
two  or  more  bands.  He  tried  to  count  the  dim 
forms,  and  found  them  somewhat  less  than  a 
score  in  all.  Perhaps  the  Long  Arrow  had 
found  it  not  easy  to  raise  a  large  party  to 
defy  the  will  of  the  council  concerning  the 
White  Chief ;  but  he  had  enough,  and  already 
the  brandy  was  beginning  to  flow,  —  the  first 
stage  of  the  orgie  which  should  take  up  the 
rest  of  the  night,  and  perhaps  the  day  to  follow. 
The  Long  Arrow  and  his  party  at  once  joined 
in  the  drinking.  Confident  that  they  would 
not  this  time  be  interrupted,  they  would  prob- 
ably use  all  deliberation  in  preparing  for  the 
torture. 

A  rough  meal  was  soon  ready,  and  all  fell  to. 
Nothing  was  set  apart  for  the  prisoner ;  though 
had  he  been  weak  they  would  have  fed  him  to 
stay  him  for  the  torture.  One  of  his  guardians, 
in  mock  pity,  threw  him  a  bone  to  which  a  little 


AT  THE   LONG  LAKE.  319 

meat  clung.  He  asked  that  his  hands  be  loosed, 
or  at  least  tied  in  front  of  his  body,  but  his 
request  brought  jeers  from  the  little  group  about 
him.  Seeing  that  there  was  no  hope  of  aid,  he 
rolled  over  and  gnawed  the  bone  where  it  lay 
on  the  ground.  The  warriors  laughed  again, 
and  one  kicked  it  away;  but  Menard  crawled 
after  it,  and  this  time  was  not  disturbed.  A 
little  later,  two  other  Indians  came  from  the 
fire,  and  after  a  talk  with  his  guards,  ordered 
him  to  his  feet  and  led  him  to  one  of  the 
huts.  The  door  was  of  rude  boards,  hung 
on  wooden  hinges,  and  now  held  in  place  by  a 
short  log.  One  brave  kicked  away  the  log,  and 
Menard  was  thrown  inside  with  such  force  that 
he  fell  headlong. 

Through  an  opening  in  the  roof  came  a  wide 
beam  of  moonlight.  He  looked  up,  and  at 
first  thought  he  was  alone ;  then  he  saw  two 
figures  crouching  against  the  rear  wall.  His 
own  face  and  head  were  so  covered  with  dust 
and  blood  that  he  could  not  have  been  recog- 
nized for  a  white  man. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  said  in  Iroquois. 

"  Captain  !  "  came  in  a  startled  voice  that  he 
knew  for  Father  Claude's ;  and  a  little  gasp  of 
relief  from  the  other  figure  brought  a  thrill  of 


320  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

joy.  He  tried  to  raise  himself,  but  in  an  instant 
they  had  come  to  him  and  were  laughing  and 
sobbing  and  speaking  his  name.  While  Father 
Claude  seized  his  shoulders  to  lift  him,  the  maid 
fell  on  her  knees,  and  with  her  teeth  tried  to  cut 
the  thongs. 

"  Wait,  Father,"  she  said  in  a  mumbled  voice, 
without  pausing  in  her  work  ;  "  wait  a  moment." 

Menard  could  feel  her  warm  tears  dropping 
on  his  hands. 

"  You  must  not,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the 
priest.  "  You  must  let  me." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  worked  faster,  until 
the  thongs  fell  away  and  she  could  rub  with  her 
own  torn  hands  the  Captain's  wrists. 

"  Now  he  may  arise,  Father.  See  —  see  what 
they  have  done  to  him." 

Menard  laughed.  All  the  weight  that  had 
pressed  on  his  heart  had  lifted  at  the  sound  of 
her  voice  and  the  touch  of  her  hands.  The 
laugh  lingered  until  he  was  on  his  feet,  and  the 
three  stood  close  together  in  the  patch  of  moon- 
light and  looked  each  into  the  other's  eyes  — 
not  speaking,  because  there  was  no  word  so 
complete  as  the  relief  that  had  come  to  them 
all ;  a  relief  so  great,  and  a  bond  so  strong  that 
during  all  the  time  they  should  live  thereafter, 


AT  THE   LONG   LAKE.  321 

through  other  days  and  other  times,  even  across 
the  seas  in  lands  where  much  should  be  about 
them  to  draw  a  mist  over  the  past,  the  moment 
would  always  be  close  in  their  memories,  —  it 
would  stand  out  above  all  other  deeds  and  other 
moments.  Then  the  Captain  held  out  his  hands, 
and  they  each  took  one  in  a  long  clasp  that  told 
them  all  to  hope,  that  stirred  a  new,  daring 
thought  in  each  heart.  Father  Claude  at  last 
turned  away  with  shining  eyes.  The  maid  stood 
looking  up  at  this  soldier  whom  she  trusted,  and 
a  little  sigh  passed  her  lips.  Then  she  too 
turned,  and  to  cover  her  thoughts  she  hummed 
a  gay  air  that  Menard  had  heard  the  trumpeters 
play  at  Quebec. 

"  Tell  us,  M'sieu,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  what  is 
it?  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  Long  Arrow." 

"  So  we  thought,"  said  Father  Claude ;  "  but 
he  was  not  with  the  party  that  brought  us 
here,  and  we  could  not  know.  They  came 
while  we  were  sleeping,  and  bound  our  mouths 
so  that  we  could  not  scream.  I  was  at 
fault,  I- 

"  No,  Father.  You  cannot  say  that.  I  left 
you.  I  should  have  been  at  your  side." 

"  Will  you  tell  us  about  it,  M'sieu  ? "  asked 


322  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

the  maid.  She  was  leaning  against  the  bark 
wall,  looking  at  the  two  men. 

Menard  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  in  a  quiet 
voice  gave  them  the  story  of  his  capture.  The 
priest  rested  near  him  on  the  broken-down  bench 
that  slanted  against  one  wall.  As  the  story 
grew,  the  maid  came  over  and  sat  at  the  Cap- 
tain's feet  where  she  could  watch  his  face  as  he 
talked.  When  he  reached  the  account  of  the 
fight  at  the  grave,  he  paused  and  looked  at  her 
upturned  face.  Then  he  went  on,  but  he  did 
not  take  up  the  tale  where  he  had  dropped  it. 
He  could  not  tell  her  of  Tegakwita's  end.  As 
he  went  on  to  the  fight  with  the  Long  Arrow's 
band  and  the  flight  through  the  hill  country,  he 
thought  that  she  had  missed  nothing ;  but  when 
he. had  finished  she  said :  — 

"  And  Tegakwita,  M'sieu  ?  Did  he  come 
with  them?" 

"  No,"  Menard  replied ;  "  he  did  not  come.  I 
killed  him." 

He  had  not  meant  to  let  the  words  come  out 
so  brutally.  And  now,  as  he  saw  the  frightened 
look,  almost  of  horror,  come  into  her  eyes,  he 
suffered  in  a  way  that  would  not  have  been  pos- 
sible before  he  had  known  this  maid.  He  read 
her  thoughts,  —  that  she  herself  was  the  cause 


AT  THE   LONG   LAKE.  323 

of  a  double  tragedy,  —  and  it  for  the  moment 
unmanned  him.  When  he  could  look  at  her 
again,  she  was  more  nearly  herself. 

"  Go  on,  M'sieu.     There  is  more  ?  " 

"  No.  There  is  no  more,  except  that  I  am 
here  with  you.  But  of  yourselves  ?  You  have 
told  me  nothing." 

"  We  have  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell,"  said 
Father  Claude.  "We  were  taken  while  we 
slept.  They  have  come  rapidly,  but  otherwise 
they  have  not  been  unkind." 

"  You  have  had  food  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  We  must  think  now,"  Menard  said  abruptly; 
"  we  must  put  our  wits  together.  It  is  late  in 
the  night,  and  we  should  be  free  before  dawn. 
Have  you  thought  of  any  way  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  priest,  slowly,  "  we  have 
thought  of  one.  Teganouan  is  with  our  party. 
At  the  first  he  tried  to  keep  out  of  sight,  but 
of  course  he  could  not,  once  we  were  on  the 
way.  He  was  a  long  time  at  the  Mission  of 
St.  Francis,  and  I  at  one  time  hoped  that  he 
would  prove  a  true  believer.  It  was  drink  that 
led  him  away  from  us,  —  an  old  weakness  with 
him.  This  morning,  when  he  passed  me,  I 
knew  that  he  was  ashamed.  I  dared  not  speak 


324  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

to  him ;  but  since  then,  whenever  my  eyes 
have  met  his,  I  have  seen  that  look  of  under- 
standing." 

"  I  fear  you  will  not  see  it  to-night,"  said  the 
Captain.  "  They  are  drinking." 

"  Ah,  but  he  is  not.  He  is  guarding  the  hut. 
Come,  M'sieu,  it  may  be  that  we  can  see  him 
now." 

Menard  rose,  and  with  the  priest  peered 
through  the  cracks  at  the  rear  of  the  hut. 
After  a  moment  they  saw  him,  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  a  tree. 

"  You  are  sure  it  is  he,  Father  ?  " 

"  Ah,  M'sieu,  I  should  know  him." 

Menard  rested  his  hand  on  a  strip  of  rotting 
bark  in  the  wall.  The  priest  saw  the  move- 
ment. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  cautiously,  "  it  would  be  very 
simple.  But  you  will  be  cautious,  M'sieu.  Of 
course,  I  do  not  know —  I  cannot  tell  surely  — 
and  yet  it  must  be  that  Teganouan  still  has  a 
warm  heart.  It  cannot  be  that  he  has  forgotten 
the  many  months  of  my  kindness." 

While  they  stood  there,  hesitating  between  a 
dozen  hasty  plans,  a  light  step  sounded,  and  in 
an  instant  their  eyes  were  at  the  opening.  A 
second  Indian  had  joined  the  guard,  and  was 


AT  THE   LONG   LAKE.  325 

talking  with  him  in  a  low  voice.  Father  Claude 
gripped  the  Captain's  arm. 

"See,  M'sieu,  —  the  wampum  collar,  —  it  is 
the  Long  Arrow." 

Menard  laid  his  finger  on  his  lips.  The  two 
Indians  were  not  a  dozen  yards  away.  The 
chief  swayed  unsteadily  as  he  talked,  and  once 
his  voice  rose.  He  carried  a  bottle,  and  paused 
now  and  then  to  drink  from  it. 

"  Teganouan  is  holding  back,"  whispered 
Menard.  "  See,  the  Long  Arrow  has  taken  his 
arm  —  they  are  coming —  is  the  door  fast  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  make  it  fast,  M'sieu.  It  opens 
outward." 

Menard  sprang  across  to  the  door  and  ran 
his  hands  over  it,  but  found  no  projection  that 
could  be  used  to  hold  it  closed.  He  stood  for 
a  moment,  puzzling ;  then  his  face  hardened, 
and  he  fell  back  to  where  the  priest  and  the 
maid  stood  side  by  side. 

"  They  will  get  in,  M'sieu  ? " 

"  Yes.     It  is  better." 

They  did  not  speak  again.  The  moccasined 
feet  made  no  noise  on  the  cleared  ground,  and 
it  seemed  a  long  time  before  they  could  hear 
the  log  fall  from  the  door.  There  were  voices 
outside.  At  last  the  door  swung  open,  and  the 


326  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Long  Arrow,  bottle  in  hand,  came  clumsily  into 
the  hut  and  stood  unsteadily  in  the  square  of 
moonlight.  He  looked  about  as  if  he  could  not 
see  them.  Teganouan  had  come  in  behind 
him  ;  and  the  door  swung  to,  creaking. 

"The  White  Chief  is  the  brother  of  the 
Long  Arrow,"  said  the  chief,  speaking  slowly 
and  with  an  effort  to  make  his  words  distinct. 
"  He  loves  the  Onondagas.  Deep  in  his  mind 
are  the  thoughts  of  the  young  white  brave  who 
lived  in  our  villages  and  hunted  with  our  braves 
and  called  the  mighty  Big  Throat  his  father. 
He  never  forgets  what  the  Onondagas  have 
done  for  him.  He  has  a  grateful  heart."  The 
effort  of  speaking  was  confusing  to  the  chief. 
He  paused,  as  if  to  collect  his  ideas,  and  looked 
stupidly  at  the  three  silent  figures  before  him. 
"...  grateful  heart,"  he  repeated.  "  The  Long 
Arrow  has  a  grateful  heart,  too.  He  remembers 
the  kind  words  of  the  white  men  who  come  to 
his  village  and  tell  him  of  the  love  of  the  Great 
Mountain.  He  never  forgets  that  the  Big  Buf- 
falo is  his  brother  —  he  never  forgets.  When 
the  Big  Buffalo  took  his  son  from  the  hunting 
party  of  the  Onondagas  he  did  not  forget." 

Menard  did  not  listen  further.  He  was  look- 
ing about  the  hut  with  quick,  shifting  eyes,  now 


AT  THE   LONG   LAKE.  327 

at  the  chief  in  the  moonlight,  now  at  Tegan- 
ouan,  who  stood  at  one  side  in  the  shadow, 
now  at  the  door.  Could  Teganouan  be  trusted 
to  help  them  ?  He  glanced  sharply  at  the  war- 
rior, who  was  looking  at  his  chief  with  an  alert, 
cunning  expression.  His  musket  lay  carelessly 
in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  his  knife  and  hatchet 
hung  at  his  waist.  The  chief  had  only  his 
knife ;  in  his  hand  was  the  bottle,  which  he 
held  loosely,  now  and  then  spilling  a  few  drops 
of  the  liquor. 

"  The  Long  Arrow  nev'r  f'rgets," — the  chief's 
tongue  was  getting  the  better  of  him.  "  His 
house  is  lonely,  where  the  fire  burns  alone  and 
the  young  warr'r  who  once  laid  's  blanket, — 
laid  's  blanket  by  the  fire,  no  long'r  's  there  to 
warm  the  heart  of  the  Long  Arrow.  But  now 
his  loneliness  is  gone.  Now  when  he  comes 
from  the  hunt  to  's  house  he'll  find  a  new  fire, 
a  bright  fire,  and  a  new  squaw  to  warm  's  heart 
—  warm  's  heart."  He  swayed  a  little  as  he 
spoke,  and  Teganouan  took  a  short  step  for- 
ward ;  but  the  chief  drew  himself  up  and  came 
slowly  across  the  patch  of  moonlight.  His  eyes 
were  unnaturally  bright,  and  they  rolled  uncer- 
tainly from  one  to  another  of  the  little  group 
before  him.  His  coarse  black  hair  was  matted 


328  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

and  tangled,  and  the  eagle  feathers  that  at  the 
council  had  stood  erect  from  his  head  now 
drooped,  straggling,  to  one  side. 

The  maid  had  understood.  The  two  men 
drew  close  to  her  on  each  side,  and  her  hand 
rested,  trembling,  on  Menard's  arm.  All  three 
were  thinking  fast.  One  scream,  the  sound  of 
a  struggle  or  even  of  loud  voices,  would  bring 
upon  them  the  whole  drunken  band.  As  the 
chief  approached,  the  maid  could  feel  the  mus- 
cles harden  on  the  Captain's  arm. 

"  Long  Arrow's  lonely  —  his  fire's  not  bright 
when  he  comes  from  hunt  —  "  Here  and  there 
in  his  talk  a  few  words  were  distinguishable  as 
he  stood  lurching  before  them.  He  reached 
out  in  a  maudlin  effort  to  touch  the  maid's 
white  face.  She  drew  in  her  breath  quickly 
and  stepped  back ;  then  Menard  had  sprung 
forward,  and  she  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands. 

There  was  a  light  scuffle,  but  no  other  sound. 
A  strong  smell  of  brandy  filled  the  hut.  Slowly 
she  lifted  her  head,  and  let  her  hands  drop  to 
her  sides.  The  Long  Arrow  lay  sprawling  at 
her  feet,  his  head  gashed  and  bleeding,  and 
covered  with  broken  glass  and  dripping  liquor. 
The  priest  had  kneeled  beside  him,  and  over 


AT  THE   LONG   LAKE.  32y 

his  bowed  head  she  saw  Teganouan,  startled, 
defiant,  his  musket  halfway  to  his  shoulder, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  door.  Her  eyes  followed 
his  gaze.  There  stood  the  Captain,  his  back 
to  the  door,  the  broken  neck  of  the  bottle  firmly 
gripped  in  his  hand. 

She  stepped  forward,  too  struck  with  horror 
to  remain  silent. 

"  Oh,  M'sieu !  "  she  said  brokenly,  stretching 
out  her  hands. 

He  motioned   to  her   to   be  quiet,  and  she 
sank  down  on  the  bench. 
"  Father,"  he  said. 

The  priest  looked  up  questioningly.  There 
was  a  long  moment  of  silence,  and  the  shouts 
and  calls  of  the  half-drunken  revellers  without 
sounded  strangely  loud.  Then,  as  the  priest 
gazed  at  the  set,  hard  face  of  the  Captain,  and 
at  the  motionless  Indian,  he  understood  of  a 
sudden  all  the  wild  plan  that  was  forming  in 
the  Captain's  mind.  He  rose  slowly  to  his 
feet,  and  stood  facing  Teganouan,  with  the 
light  streaming  down  upon  his  gentle  face. 

"The  sun  has  gone  to  sleep  many  times, 
Teganouan,  since  you  left  the  great  white 
house  of  the  church  at  St.  Francis.  You 
have  heard  the  counsel  of  evil  men,  who  think 


330  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

only  of  the  knife  and  the  hatchet  and  the 
musket,  who  have  no  dream  but  to  slay  their 
brothers."  He  was  speaking  slowly  and  in  a 
kindly  voice,  as  a  father  might  speak  to  a  son 
who  has  wandered  from  the  right.  "  Have 
you  forgotten  the  talk  of  the  holy  Fathers, 
when  they  told  you  the  words  of  the  Book  of  the 
Great  Spirit,  who  is  to  all  your  Manitous  and 
Okis  as  the  sun  is  to  the  stars.  Have  you  for- 
gotten the  many  moons  that  passed  while  you 
lived  in  the  great  white  house,  —  when  you 
gave  your  promise,  the  promise  of  an  Onon- 
daga,  that  you  would  be  a  friend  to  the  white 
man,  that  you  would  believe  the  words  of  the 
Great  Spirit  and  live  a  peaceful  life  ?  Have  you 
forgotten,  Teganouan,  the  evil  days  when  your 
enemy,  the  fire-water,  took  possession  of  your 
heart  and  led  you  away  from  the  white  house 
into  the  lodges  of  them  that  do  wrong,  —  how 
when  the  good  spirit  returned  to  you  and  you 
came  back  to  the  arms  of  the  Faith,  you  were 
received  as  a  son  and  a  brother?  The  holy 
Fathers  did  nqt  say,  '  This  warrior  has  done 
that  which  he  should  not  do.  Let  him  be 
punished.  We  have  no  place  for  the  wrong- 
doer.' No ;  they  did  not  say  this.  They  said, 
'  The  lost  is  found.  He  that  wandered  from 


AT  THE   LONG  LAKE.  331 

the  fold  has  returned.  And  they  welcomed 
the  lost  one,  and  bade  him  repent  and  lead  a 
right  life.  Have  you  forgotten,  Teganouan  ?  " 

The  Indian  had  slowly  lowered  his  mus- 
ket. 

"  Teganouan  has  not  forgotten,"  he  replied. 
"  He  has  a  grateful  heart  toward  the  holy 
Fathers  of  the  great  white  house.  When  he 
was  sick,  they  brought  him  their  good  doctor 
and  told  him  to  live.  He  believed  that  the 
white  men  were  his  brothers,  that  they  would 
do  to  him  as  the  Fathers  had  promised.  But 
when  Teganouan  came  to  the  white  men,  and 
asked  to  be  made  like  they  were,  he  left  behind 
in  his  village  a  brother  and  a  sister  and  a  father 
who  said  that  he  was  a  traitor,  who  said  that 
he  was  false  to  the  trust  of  his  blood  and  his 
nation,  that  he  was  not  of  their  blood." 

"  And  did  he  believe  them  ?  Did  he  not 
know,  better  than  they  could,  that  the  faith  of 
the  white  man  is  also  the  faith  of  the  redman; 
that  the  love  of  the  white  man  includes  all  who 
breathe  and  speak  and  hunt  and  trade  and 
move  upon  the  earth  ?  " 

"  Teganouan  has  not  forgotten.  He  heard 
the  words  of  the  Fathers,  and  he  believed  that 
they  were  true;  but  when  the  white  Captain 


332  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

took  from  the  Onondagas  five  score  of  their 
bravest  warriors  and  called  them  slaves,  when 
he  took  the  brother  of  Teganouan,  borne  by 
the  same  mother  and  fed  by  the  same  hand,  to 
be  a  slave  of  the  mighty  Chief-Across-the- 
Water,  could  he  remember  what  the  holy 
Fathers  had  said,  —  that  all  men  were 
brothers  ? " 

"  Teganouan  has  heard  what  the  White 
Chief,  the  Big  Buffalo,  has  said,  that  the  evil 
man  who  was  treacherous  to  the  Onondagas 
shall  be  punished  ?  " 

"  Teganouan  understands.  But  the  evil  man 
is  far  from  the  vengeance  of  the  white  man. 
The  White  Chief  is  here  in  our  lodges." 

Menard  left  the  door  and  came  to  the 
priest's  side.  The  jagged  piece  of  glass,  his 
only  weapon,  he  threw  to  the  ground. 

"  Teganouan,"  he  said  slowly  and  firmly,  look- 
ing into  the  Indian's  eyes,  "you  heard  the 
great  council  at  the  Long  House  of  the  Five 
Nations.  You  heard  the  decision  of  the  chiefs 
and  warriors,  that  they  whom  Onontio  had 
sent  to  bring  a  message  of  peace  should  be 
set  free.  You  have  broken  the  pledge  made 
by  your  council.  You  have  attacked  us  and 
made  us  prisoners,  and  brought  us  here  where 


AT  THE   LONG   LAKE.  333 

we  may  be  tortured  and  killed  and  none  may 
know.  But  when  the  Great  Mountain  finds 
that  the  Big  Buffalo  has  not  come  back,  when 
he  sends  his  white  soldier  to  the  villages  of  the 
Onondagas  and  asks  what  they  have  done  to 
him  who  brought  his  voice,  what  will  you  say  ? 
When  the  chiefs  say,  '  We  set  him  free,'  and  look 
about  to  find  the  warrior  who  has  dared  to 
disobey  the  Long  House,  what  will  you  say? 
When  the  young  boys  and  the  drunkards  with 
loose  tongues  have  told  the  story  of  the  death 
of  the  Long  Arrow,  what  will  you  say  ?  Then 
you  will  be  glad  to  flee  to  the  white  house  of 
the  holy  Fathers,  knowing  that  they  will  pro- 
tect you  and  save  you  when  the  braves  of  your 
own  blood  shall  pursue  you." 

Teganouan's  eyelids  had  drooped,  and  now  he 
was  looking  at  the  ground,  where  the  chief  lay. 

"  You  will  come  with  me,  Teganouan.  You 
will  fly  with  us  over  the  Long  Lake,  and 
through  the  forests  and  down  the  mighty  rivers 
and  over  the  inland  sea,  and  there  you  shall 
be  safe ;  and  you  shall  see  with  your  own  eyes 
the  punishment  that  the  Great  Mountain  will 
give  to  the  evil  man  who  has  been  false  to  the 
Onondagas." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  silently  waited. 


334  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

The  priest's  head  was  raised,  and  his  lips  moved 
slowly  in  prayer.  The  maid  sat  rigid,  her 
hands  tightly  gripping  the  edge  of  the  bench. 
Though  he  knew  that  every  moment  brought 
nearer  the  chance  of  discovery,  that  the  lives 
of  them  all  hung  on  a  thread  as  slender  as  a 
hair,  the  Captain  stood  without  the  twitching 
of  a  muscle,  without  a  sign  of  fear  or  haste  in 
his  grave,  worn  face. 

The  Indian's  eyes  wavered.  He  looked  at  the 
fallen  chief,  at  the  priest,  at  Menard ;  then  he 
took  the  offered  hand.  No  further  word  was 
needed.  Menard  did  not  know  the  thought 
that  lay  behind  the  cunning  face ;  it  was 
enough  that  the  Indian  had  given  his  word. 

"  Quick,  we  must  hide  him,"  said  the  Captain, 
looking  swiftly  about  the  hut.  "  We  must  dis- 
turb you,  Mademoiselle  —  " 

In  a  moment  the  three  men  had  lifted  the 
body  of  the  Long  Arrow  and  laid  it  away  un- 
der the  low  bench.  Teganouan  scraped  a  few 
handfuls  of  earth  from  a  corner  and  spread  it 
over  the  spot  where  the  chief  had  been. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  lake,  Teganouan?  " 

"  But  a  few  rods." 

"  And  the  forest  is  thick  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


AT  THE   LONG   LAKE.  335 

"  We  must  cross  the  lake.  Is  there  a  canoe 
here  ?  " 

The  Indian  shook  his  head.  Menard  stood 
thinking  for  an  instant. 

"  If  you  are  thinking  of  me,  M'sieu,  I  think  I 
can  swim  with  you,"  said  the  maid,  timidly. 

"  There  is  no  other  way,  Mademoiselle.  I 
am  sorry.  But  we  will  make  it  as  easy  as  we 
can." 

He  stepped  to  the  rear  wall,  and  with  a  blow 
of  his  fist  would  have  broken  an  opening 
through  the  rotted  bank,  but  the  Indian  caught 
his  arm. 

"  It  is  not  necessary.  See."  He  set  rapidly 
to  work,  and  in  a  few  silent  moments  he  had 
unlaced  the  thread-like  root  that  held  the  sheet 
of  bark  in  place,  and  lowered  it  to  the  ground. 
He  raised  himself  by  the  cross-pole  that  marked 
the  top  of  the  wall,  and  slipped  through  the 
opening.  A  few  quick  glances  through  the 
trees,  and  he  turned  and  beckoned.  Menard  fol- 
lowed, with  the  knife  of  the  Long  Arrow  be- 
tween his  teeth ;  and  with  Father  Claude's  help 
the  maid  got  through  to  where  he  could  catch 
her  and  lower  her  to  the  ground. 

The  Indian  made  a  cautious  gesture  and 
crept  slowly  through  the  yielding  bushes.  One 


336  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

by  one  they  followed,  the  Captain  lingering 
until  the  maid  was  close  to  him  and  he  could 
whisper  to  her  to  keep  her  courage.  They 
paused  at  the  bank  of  the  lake.  The  water 
lay  sparkling  in  the  moonlight.  Menard  looked 
grimly  out ;  this  light  added  to  the  danger. 
He  found  a  short  log  close  at  hand  and  carried 
it  to  the  water. 

"  Come,  Mademoiselle,"  he  whispered,  "  and 
Father  Claude.  This  will  support  you.  Teg- 
anouan  and  I  will  swim.  Keep  low  in  the 
water,  and  do  not  splash  or  speak.  The  slight- 
est noise  will  travel  far  across  the  lake." 

Slowly  they  waded  out,  dropping  into  the 
water  before  it  was  waist  deep.  Teganouan's 
powder-horn  and  musket  lay  on  the  log,  and 
the  maid  herself  steadied  it  so  that  they  should 
not  be  lost. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NORTHWARD. 

AA7EAK   and  chilled   from   the  long   swim 

*  »  through  the  cold  water  they  dragged 
themselves  across  the  narrow  beach  to  the  bushes 
that  hung  over  the  bank.  Menard  and  Father 
Claude  supported  the  maid,  who  was  trembling 
and  clinging  to  them.  At  the  bank  she  sank 
to  the  ground. 

"  It  is  hard,  Mademoiselle,  but  we  must  not 
stop.  It  is  better  to  be  weary  than  to  rest  in 
this  condition.  It  would  mean  sickness." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  j  "  I  know.  In  a  moment  I 
can  go  on."  She  looked  up  and  tried  to  smile. 
"  It  is  so  cold,  M'sieu." 

Menard  turned  to  Teganouan. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  villages  of  the  Cayu- 
gas?"  . 

"  Not  far.     Half  a  sleep." 

"  Is  there  a  trail  ?  " 

"  The  trail  is  far.     It  passes  the  end  of  the 

337 


338  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Long  Lake."  He  raised  his  head  and  looked 
at  the  stars,  then  pointed  to  the  southwest. 
"  The  nearest  village  lies  there.  If  we  go 
through  the  forest  toward  the  setting  sun,  we 
shall  meet  the  trail." 

"  You  think  it  will  be  wise  to  go  to  the  Cayu- 
gas,  M'sieu  ?  "  asked  Father  Claude. 

"  I  think  so.  The  chiefs  must  have  returned 
before  this  time,  or  at  least  by  the  morrow." 
He  dropped  into  the  Iroquois  tongue.  "  Is  not 
this  so,  Teganouan?  Would  the  chiefs  of 
the  Cayugas  linger  among  the  Onondagas' 
after  the  close  of  the  council  ? " 

"  The  Cayuga  warriors  await  the  word  of  the 
Long  House.  They  know  that  their  chiefs 
would  hasten  to  bring  it  back  to  them." 

"  Yes.  It  must  be  so,  Father.  And  we  can 
trust  them  to  aid  us.  Perhaps  they  will  give 
us  a  canoe.  Teganouan  must  tell  them  he  is  our 
guide,  sent  by  the  Big  Throat  and  the  chiefs  of 
the  Onondagas  to  take  us  safely  to  Frontenac." 

The  maid  was  struggling  to  keep  awake,  but 
her  lids  were  heavy.  Menard  came  to  her  and 
stood,  hesitating.  She  knew  that  he  was 
there ;  she  could  hear  the  rustle  of  his  wet 
clothes,  and  his  heavy  breathing,  but  she  did 
not  look  up. 


NORTHWARD.  339 

"  Come,"  he  said,  lightly  touching  her  shoul- 
der, "  we  cannot  wait  here.  We  must  go." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  he  hesitated  again. 
Then  he  stooped  and  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 

"You  will  go  ahead,  Teganouan,"  he  said, 
"and  you,  too,  if  you  will,  Father  Claude. 
Choose  an  easy  trail  if  you  can,  and  be  careful 
that  no  twig  flies  back." 

They  set  out  slowly  through  the  forest.  The 
priest  and  the  Indian  laboriously  broke  a  way, 
and  Menard  followed,  holding  the  maid  ten- 
derly, and  now  and  then,  in  some  lighter  spot 
where  a  beam  of  moonlight  fell  through  the 
foliage,  looking  down  at  her  gentle,  weary  face. 
She  was  sleeping ;  and  he  prayed  that  no  sad 
dreams  might  come  to  steal  her  rest.  His  arms 
ached  and  his  knees  gave  under  him,  but  he 
had  hardly  a  thought  for  himself.  At  last,  after 
a  long,  silent  march,  the  priest  stopped,  and  said, 
supporting  himself  with  one  thin  hand  against  a 
tree :  — 

"You  are  weary,  M'sieu.  You  must  let  me 
take  Mademoiselle." 

"  No,  Father,  no.  I  have  been  thinking.  I 
am  afraid  it  is  not  right  that  she  should  sleep 
now.  Even  though  she  fail  in  the  effort,  exer- 
cise of  her  muscles  is  all  that  will  prevent  sick- 


340  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

ness.  And  yet  I  cannot,"  —  he  looked  again 
at  her  face  as  it  rested  against  his  shoulder,  — 
"  I  cannot  awaken  her  now." 

The  Father  saw  the  sorrow  in  the  Captain's 
eyes,  and  understood. 

"  I  will  take  her,  M'sieu." 

Carefully  Menard  placed  her  in  Father 
Claude's  arms  and  turned  away. 

"  Teganouan,"  he  said,  trying  to  recover  his 
self-possession,  "  should  we  not  be  near  the 
trail  ? " 

"  Yes,  more  than  half  the  way." 

"  Can  we  reach  it  more  quickly  by  heading  a 
little  to  the  north  ?  " 

"  We  would  reach  the  trail,  yes ;  but  the  way 
would  be  longer." 

"  Never  mind ;  once  on  the  trail  it  will  be 
easier  than  in  this  forest.  Turn  to  the  north, 
Teganouan." 

He  could  hear  the  maid's  voice,  protesting 
sleepily,  and  Father  Claude  talking  quietly  to 
her.  He  looked  around.  The  priest  said  in  a 
low  tone :  —  ' 

"  Come,  M'sieu,  it  is  hard  to  awaken  her." 

"  We  must  frighten  her,  then." 

He  caught  her  shoulders  and  shook  her 
roughly.  Slowly  her  eyes  opened,  and  then  the 


NORTHWARD.  341 

two  men  dragged  her  forward.  At  first  she 
thought  herself  back  among  the  Onondagas, 
and  she  begged  them  not  to  take  her  away, 
hanging  back  and  forcing  them  almost  to  carry 
her.  It  cut  Menard  to  the  heart,  but  he  pushed 
steadily  forward.  Later  she  yielded,  and  with  a 
dazed  expression  obeyed.  Once  or  twice  she 
stumbled,  and  would  have  fallen  but  for  the 
strong  hands  that  held  her.  Father  Claude 
rested  his  hand  on  her  forehead  as  they  walked, 
and  Menard  gave  him  an  anxious,  questioning 
glance.  The  priest  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  there  is  no  fever.  I  trust 
that  it  is  nothing  worse  than  exhaustion." 

Menard  went  on  with  relief  in  his  .eyes. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  after  reaching  the 
trail,  they  came  upon  the  outlying  huts  of  the 
village.  Over  the  hills  to  the  east  the  dawn 
was  breaking,  and  all  the  sleeping  birds  and 
beasts  and  creeping  things  of  the  forest  were 
stirring  into  life  and  movement.  Teganouan 
went  ahead  of  the  party  and  soon  roused  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Cayuga  branch  of  his  clan,  the  family 
of  the  Bear.  Through  the  yawning  services  of 
this  warrior  they  were  guided  to  an  unused  hut. 
Teganouan  searched  farther,  and  returned  with 
a  heap  of  blankets  for  the  maid,  who  had  dropped 


342  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

to  the  ground  before  the  hut.  Menard  carried 
her  within  and  made  her  as  comfortable  as  pos- 
sible, then  withdrew  and  closed  the  door." 

"  Have  the  chiefs  returned  from  the  council 
at  the  village  of  the  Onondagas  ?  "  he  asked  of 
the  warrior,  who  stood  at  one  side  watching 
them  with  curiosity  in  his  gaze. 

The  Cayuga  bowed. 

"  Will  my  brother  carry  a  message  from  the 
White  Chief,  the  Big  Buffalo,  to  his  chiefs? 
Will  he  tell  them,  as  soon  as  the  sun  has  risen, 
that  the  Big  Buffalo  has  come  to  talk  with 
them  ? " 

The  warrior  bowed  and  walked  away. 

"  We  are  safe  now,  I  think,  Father.  We 
must  get  what  little  sleep  we  can  between  now 
and  sunrise." 

"  Should  not  one  of  us  watch,  M'sieu  ? " 

"  We  are  not  fit  for  it.  We  have  hard  work 
before  us,  and  many  a  chance  yet  to  run." 

"  Teganouan  will  watch,"  said  the  Indian. 

Menard's  face  showed  surprise,  but  Father 
Claude  whispered,  "  He  has  learned  at  the  mis- 
sion to  understand  our  language." 

They  lay  on  the  ground  before  the  hut,  in 
their  wet  clothes,  and  in  a  moment  were  asleep. 
Teganouan  built  a  fire  close  at  hand,  and  sat 


NORTHWARD.  343 

by  it  without  a  motion,  excepting  the  alert  shift- 
ing glances  of  his  bead-like  eyes,  until,  when  the 
colours  in  the  east  had  faded  into  blue  and  the 
sun  was  well  above  the  trees,  he  saw  the  chiefs 
of  the  village  coming  slowly  toward  him  between 
the  huts,  a  crowd  of  young  men  following  behind 
them,  and  a  snarling  pack  of  dogs  running  be- 
fore. He  aroused  Menard  and  Father  Claude. 

The  chiefs  sat  in  a  circle  about  the  fire,  the 
two  white  men  among  them.  The  other  Indians 
sat  and  stood  in  a  wider  circle,  just  within  ear- 
shot, and  waited  inquisitively  for  the  White 
Chief  to  state  his  errand. 

"  My  brothers,  the  white  men,  have  asked  to 
speak  with  the  chiefs  of  the  Cayugas,"  said  the 
spokesman,  a  wrinkled  old  warrior,  whom  Me- 
nard recognized  as  one  of  the  speakers  at  the 
Long  House. 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  is  on  his  way  to  the  stone 
house  of  Onontio.  He  is  far  from  the  trail. 
His  muskets  and  his  knives  and  hatchets  were 
taken  from  him  by  the  Onondagas  and  were  not 
returned  to  him.  He  asks  that  the  chiefs  of 
the  Cayugas  permit  him  to  use  one  of  their 
many  canoes,  that  he  may  hasten  to  carry  to 
Onontio  the  word  of  the  Long  House." 

"  The  White  Chief  comes  to  the  Cayugas,  who 


344  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

live  two  sleeps  away  from  their  brothers,  the 
Onondagas,  to  ask  for  aid.  Have  the  Onon- 
dagas  then  refused  him  ?  Why  is  my  brother 
so  far  from  the  trail  ?  " 

"  The  chiefs  of  the  Cayugas  sat  in  the  Long 
House;  they  heard  the  words  of  the  great  coun- 
cil, that  the  Big  Buffalo  and  the  holy  Father 
and  the  white  maiden  should  be  set  free.  They 
know  that  what  is  decided  in  the  council  is  the 
law  of  the  nation,  that  no  warrior  shall  break 
it." 

The  little  circle  was  silent  with  attention,  but 
none  of  the  chiefs  replied. 

"  It  was  still  in  the  dark  of  the  night  when 
the  Big  Throat  came  to  the  lodge  of  the  Big 
Buffalo,  and  gave  him  the  pledge  of  the  council 
that  he  should  be  free  with  the  next  sun.  The 
Big  Buffalo  once  learned  to  believe  the  pledge 
of  the  Iroquois.  When  the  mighty  Big  Throat 
said  that  he  was  free,  he  believed.  He  did  not 
set  a  guard  to  sit  with  wakeful  eyes  through  the 
night  in  fear  that  the  pledge  was  not  true.  No, 
the  Big  Buffalo  is  a  warrior  and  a  chief ;  he  is 
not  a  woman.  He  trusted  his  red  brothers,  and 
rested  his  head  to  sleep.  Then  in  the  dark 
came  a  chief,  a  dog  of  a  traitor,  and  took  away 
his  white  brother  and  his  white  sister  while  their 


NORTHWARD.  345 

eyes  were  still  heavy  with  sleep,  and  carried 
them  far  over  the  hills  to  the  lake  of  the  Cayu- 
gas.  Here  they  hid  like  serpents  in  the  long 
grass,  and  thought  that  they  would  kill  them. 
But  the  Big  Buffalo  is  a  warrior.  Without  a 
knife  or  a  musket  or  a  hatchet  he  killed  the 
Long  Arrow  and  came  across  the  Long  Lake. 
He  knew  that  the  Cayugas  were  his  brothers, 
that  they  would  not  break  the  pledge  of  the 
Long  House." 

The  grave  faces  of  the  Indians  showed  no 
surprise,  save  for  a  slight  movement  of  the 
eyes  on  the  part  of  one  or  two  of  the  younger 
men,  when  the  Long  Arrow  was  mentioned. 
Most  of  them  had  lighted  their  pipes  before 
sitting  down,  and  now  they  puffed  in  silence. 

"  The  White  Chief  speaks  strangely,"  the 
spokesman  said  at  last.  "  He  tells  the  Cayu- 
gas that  their  brothers,  the  Onondagas,  have 
broken  the  pledge  of  the  council." 

"  Yes." 

"  He  asks  for  aid  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Menard,  "  he  does  not  ask  for  aid. 
He  asks  that  the  Iroquois  nation  restore  to  him 
what  the  dogs  of  the  Long  Arrow  have  taken 
away.  He  has  spoken  to  the  Long  House  in 
the  voice  of  the  Great  Mountain.  He  has  the 


346  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

right  of  a  free  man,  of  a  chief  honoured  by  the 
council,  to  go  freely  and  in  peace.  What  if 
those  who  do  not  respect  the  law  of  the  council 
shall  rob  him  of  his  rights  ?  Must  he  go  on  his 
knees  to  the  chiefs?  Must  he  ask  that  he  be 
allowed  to  live  ?  Must  he  go  far  back  on  his 
trail  to  seek  aid  of  the  Onondagas,  because  the 
Cayugas  will  not  hold  to  the  law  ?  " 

One  of  the  great  lessons  learned  during  Me- 
nard's  work  under  Governor  Frontenac  had  been 
that  the  man  who  once  permits  himself  to  be 
lowered  in  the  eyes  of  the  Indians  has  forever 
lost  his  prestige.  Now  he  sat  before  the  chiefs 
of  a  great  village,  weak  from  the  strain  of  the 
long  days  and  nights  of  distress  and  wakeful- 
ness  and  hunger,  his  clothing  still  wet  and  be- 
draggled, with  no  weapon  but  a  knife,  no  canoe, 
not  to  speak  of  presents,  —  with  none  of  the 
equipment  which  to  the  Indian  mind  suggested 
authority,  —  and  yet  made  his  demands  in  the 
stern  voice  of  a  conqueror.  He  knew  that  these 
Indians  cared  not  at  all  whether  the  word  of 
the  council  to  him  had  been  broken  or  kept, 
unless  he  could  so  impress  them  with  his 
authority  that  they  would  fear  punishment  for 
the  offence. 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  is  a  mighty  warrior,"  said 


NORTHWARD.  347 

the  spokesman.  "  His  hard  hands  are  greater 
than  the  muskets  and  hatchets  of  the  Cayugas. 
He  fights  with  the  strength  of  the  winter  wind ; 
no  man  can  stand  where  his  hand  falls.  He 
speaks  wisely  to  the  Cayugas.  They  are  sorry 
that  their  brothers,  the  Onondagas,  have  so 
soon  forgotten  the  word  of  the  great  council. 
Let  the  Big  Buffalo  rest  his  arms.  The  war- 
riors of  the  Cayugas  shall  be  proud  to  offer 
him  food." 

They  all  rose,  and  after  a  few  grunted  words 
of  friendship,  filed  away  to  go  over  the  matter 
in  private  council.  Menard  saw  that  they  were 
puzzled ;  perhaps  they  did  not  believe  that  he 
had  killed  the  Long  Arrow.  He  turned  to 
Teganouan,  who  had  been  sitting  a  few  yards 
away. 

"  Teganouan,  will  you  go  among  the  braves 
of  the  village  and  tell  them  that  the  Big 
Buffalo  is  a  strong  fighter,  that  he  killed  the 
Long  Arrow  with  his  hands?  It  may  be  that 
they  have  not  believed." 

This  was  the  kind  of  strategy  Teganouan 
understood.  He  walked  slowly  away,  puffing 
at  his  pipe,  to  mingle  among  the  people  of  the 
village  and  boast  in  bold  metaphors  the  prow- 
ess of  his  White  Chief. 


348  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

"  They  will  give  us  a  canoe,"  said  Father 
Claude. 

"  Yes,  they  must.     Now,  let  us  sleep  again." 

They  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  Menard 
looked  warningly  at  the  circle  of  young  boys 
who  came  as  close  as  they  dared  to  see  this 
strange  white  man,  and  to  hear  him  talk  in  the 
unpronounceable  language.  Father  Claude's 
eyes  were  first  to  close.  The  Captain  was 
about  to  join  him  in  slumber  when  a  low  voice 
came  from  the  door. 

"  M'sieu." 

He  started  up  and  saw  the  maid  holding 
the  door  ajar  and  leaning  against  it,  her  pale 
face,  framed  in  a  tangle  of  soft  hair,  showing 
traces  of  the  wearing  troubles  of  the  days  just 
passed. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  you  must  not  waken. 
You  must  sleep  long,  and  rest,  and  grow  bright 
and  young  again," 

She  smiled,  and  looked  at  him  timidly. 

"  I  have  been  dreaming,  M'sieu,"  she  said,  and 
her  eyes  dropped,  "  such  an  unpleasant  dream. 
It  was  after  we  had  crossed  the  lake —  We 
did  cross  it,  M'sieu,  did  we  not  ?  That,  too,  was 
not  a  dream  ?  No  —  see,  my  hair  is  wet." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  that  was  not  a  dream." 


NORTHWARD.  349 

"  We  were  on  the  land,  and  I  was  so  tired, 
and  you  talked  to  me  —  something  good-- I 
cannot  remember  what  it  was,  but  I  know  that 
you  were  good.  And  I  thought  that  I  —  that 
I  said  words  that  hurt  you,  unkind  words.  And 
when  I  wished  and  tried  to  speak  as  I  felt,  only 
the  other  words  would  come.  That  was  a 
dream,  M'sieu,  was  it  not?  It  has  been  troub- 
ling me.  You  have  been  so  kind,  and  I  could 
not  sleep  thinking  that  —  that  — : 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  was  a  dream." 

She  looked  at  him  with  relief,  but  as  she 
looked  she  seemed  to  become  more  fully  awake 
to  what  they  were  saying.  Her  eyes  lowered 
again,  and  the  red  came  over  her  face. 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  said,  so  low  that  he  hardly 
heard. 

"  And  now  you  will  rest,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

She  smiled  softly,  and  drew  back  within  the 
hut,  closing  the  heavy  door.  And  Menard 
turned  away,  unmindful  of  the  wide-eyed  boys 
who  were  staring  from  a  safe  distance  at  him 
and  at  the  door  where  the  strange  woman  had 
appeared.  He  sat  with  his  back  against  the 
logs  of  the  hut,  and  looked  at  the  ants  that 
hurried  about  over  the  trampled  ground. 

The  sun  was  high  when  he  was  aroused  by 


350  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Teganouan,  who  had  spent  the  greater  part 
of  the  morning  among  the  people  of  the  vil- 
lage. 

"  Have  you  any  word,  Teganouan  ? " 
"  Yes.      The   warriors   have  learned   of   the 
strength   of   the    Big    Buffalo,    and    his    name 
frightens  them.     They  bow  to  the  great  chief 
who    has   killed   the    Long  Arrow  without   a 
hatchet.     They  say  that  the  Onondagas  should 
be  punished  for  their  treachery." 
"  Good." 

"  Teganouan  has  been  talking  long  with  a 
runner  of  the  Seneca  nation." 

"  Ah,  he  brings  word  of  the  fight  ? " 
"  Yes.  The  Senecas  have  suffered  under  the 
iron  hand  of  the  Great  Mountain.  A  great 
army  takes  up  the  hatchet  when  he  goes  on 
the  war-path,  more  than  all  the  Senecas  and 
Cayugas  and  Onondagas  together  when  every 
brave  who  can  hold  in  his  hand  a  bow  or  a 
musket  has  come  to  fight  with  his  brothers. 
There  were  white  warriors  so  many  that  the 
runner  could  not  have  counted  them  with  all 
the  sticks  in  the  Long  House.  There  were 
men  of  the  woods  in  the  skins  and  beads  of 
the  redmen ;  there  were  Hurons  and  Ottawas 
and  Nipissings,  and  even  the  cowardly  llli- 


NORTHWARD.  35T 

nois  and  the  Kaskaskias  and  the  Miamis  from 
the  land  where  the  Great  River  flows  past  the 
Rock  Demons.  The  Senecas  fought  with  the 
strength  of  the  she-bear,  but  their  warriors  were 
killed,  their  corn  was  trampled  and  cut,  their 
lodges  were  burned." 

"  Did  the  Great  Mountain  pursue  them  ?  " 
"  He    has    gone    back    to    his   stone   house 
across  the  great  lake,  leaving  the  land  black 
and    smoking.      The    Senecas    have   come    to 
the  western  villages  of  the  Cayugas." 
"  There  are  none  in  this  village  ?  " 
"  No.     But  the  chiefs  have  sent  blankets  to 
their  brothers,  and  as  much  corn  as  a  hundred 
braves  could  carry  over  the  trail.     They  have 
taken  from  their  own  houses   to  give  to  the 
Senecas." 

A  few  moments  later  two  young  men  came 
with  baskets  of  sagamity  and  smoked  meat. 
Menard  received  it,  and  rising,  knocked  gen- 
tly at  the  door. 

"  Yes,  M'sieu,  —  I  am  not  sleeping." 
He  hesitated,  and  she  came  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

"Ah,  you  have  food,  M'sieu!  I  am  glad.  I 
have  been  so  hungry." 

"  Come,  Father,"  said  the  Captain,  and  they 


352  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

entered  and  sat  on  the  long  bench,  eating  the 
smoky,  greasy  meat  as  eagerly  as  if  it  had  been 
cooked  for  the  Governor's  table.  Their  spirits 
rose  as  the  baskets  emptied,  and  they  found 
that  they  could  laugh  and  joke  about  their 
ravenous  hunger. 

The  chiefs  returned  shortly  after,  and  came 
stooping  into  the  hut  in  the  free  Indian  fashion. 
The  old  chief  spoke :  — 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  has  honoured  the  lodges  of 
the  Cayugas ;  he  has  made  the  village  proud  to 
offer  him  their  corn  and  meat.  It  would  make 
their  hearts  glad  if  he  would  linger  about  their 
fires,  with  the  holy  Father  and  the  squaw,  that 
they  might  tell  their  brothers  of  the  great  war- 
rior who  dwelt  in  their  village.  But  the  White 
Chief  bears  the  word  of  the  Long  House. 
He  goes  to  the  stone  house  to  tell  his  white 
brothers,  who  fight  with  the  thunder,  that  the 
Cayugas  and  the  Onondagas  are  friends  of  the 
white  men,  that  they  have  given  a  pledge 
which  binds  them  as  close  as  could  the  stout- 
est ropes  of  deerskin.  And  so  with  sad  hearts 
they  come  to  say  farewell  to  the  Big  Buffalo, 
and  to  wish  that  no  dog  may  howl  while  he 
sleeps,  that  no  wind  may  blow  against  his 
canoe,  that  no  rains  may  fall  until  he  rests 


NORTHWARD.  3S3 

with  his  brothers  at  the  great  stone  house 
beyond  the  lake." 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  thanks  the  mighty  chiefs 
of  the  Cayugas,"  replied  Menard.  "  He  is  glad 
that  they  are  his  friends.  And  when  his  mouth 
is  close  to  the  ear  of  the  Great  Mountain,  he 
will  tell  him  that  his  Cayuga  sons  are  loyal  to 
their  Father." 

The  chief  had  lighted  a  long  pipe.  After 
two  deliberate  puffs,  the  first  upward  toward 
the  roof  of  the  hut,  the  second  toward  the 
ground,  he  handed  it  to  Menard,  who  followed 
his  example,  and  passed  it  to  the  chief  next  in 
importance.  As  it  went  slowly  from  hand  to 
hand  about  the  circle,  the  Captain  turned  to 
the  maid,  who  sat  at  his  side. 

"  Do  they  mean  it,  M'sieu  ?  "  she  whispered. 

For  an  instant  a  twinkle  came  into  his-  eye; 
she  saw  it,  and  smiled. 

"  Careful,"  he  whispered. 

Before  she  could  check  the  smile,  a  bronze 
hand  reached  across  to  her  with  the  pipe.  She 
started  back  and  looked  down  at  it. 

"You  must  smoke  it,"  Menard  whispered. 
"  It  is  a  great  honour.  They  have  admitted 
you  to  their  council." 

"  Oh,    M'sieu  —  I    can't  —  "   she    took    the 


354  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

pipe  and  held  it  awkwardly;  then,  with  an 
effort,  raised  it  to  her  mouth.  It  made  her 
cough,  and  she  gave  it  quickly  to  the  Captain. 

The  Indians  rose  gravely  and  filed  out  of 
the  hut. 

"  Come,  Mademoiselle,  we  are  to  go." 

The  smoke  had  brought  tears  to  her  eyes,  and 
she  was  hesitating,  laughing  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Oh,  M'sieu,  will  —  will  it  make  me  sick  ?  " 

He  smiled,  with  a  touch  of  the  old  light 
humour. 

"  I  think  not.  We  must  go,  or  they  will 
wonder." 

They  found  the  chiefs  waiting  before  the  hut, 
Father  Claude  and  Teganouan  among  them. 
As  soon  as  they  had  appeared,  the  whole  party 
set  out  through  the  village  and  over  a  trail' 
through  the  woods  to  the  eastward.  The  ill- 
kept  dogs  played  about  them,  and  plunged, 
barking,  through  the  brush  on  either  side. 
Behind,  at  a  little  distance,  came  the  children 
and  hangers-on  of  the  village,  jostling  one 
another  to  keep  at  the  head  where  they  could 
see  the  white  strangers. 

When  they  reached  the  bank  of  the  lake,  they 
found  two  canoes  drawn  up  on  the  narrow  strip 
of  gravel,  and  a  half-dozen  well-armed  braves 


NORTHWARD.  3S5 

waiting  close  at  hand.     The  chief  paused  and 
pointed  toward  the  canoes. 

"The  Cayugas  are  proud  that  the  White 
Chief  will  sail  in  their  canoes  to  the  land  of  the 
white  men.  The  bravest  warriors  of  a  mighty 
village  will  go  with  them  to  see  that  no  Onon- 
daga  arrow  flies  into  their  camp  by  night." 

He  signalled  to  a  brave,  who  brought  for- 
ward a  musket  and  laid  it,  with  powder-horn 
and  bullet-pouch,  at  the  Captain's  feet. 

"  This  musket  is  to  tell  the  Big  Buffalo  that 
no  wild  beast  shall  disturb  his  feast,  and  that 
meat  in  plenty  shall  hang  from  the  smoking- 
pole  in  his  lodge." 

The  canoes  were  carried  into  the  water  and 
they  embarked,  —  Menard,  the  maid,  and  two 
braves  in  one,  Father  Claude  and  four  braves 
in  the  other.  They  swung  out  into  the  lake, 
the  wiry  arms  and  shoulders  of  the  canoemen 
knotting  with  each  stroke  of  the  paddles ;  and 
the  crowd  of  Indians  stood  on  the  shore  gazing 
after  until  they  had  passed  from  view  beyond 
a  wooded  point. 

A  few  hours  should  take  them  to  the  head 
of  the  lake.  They  had  reached  perhaps  half 
the  distance,  when  Menard  saw  that  two  of  his 
canoemen  had  exchanged  glances  and  were 


356  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

looking  toward  the  shore.  He  glanced  along 
the  fringe  of  trees  and  bushes,  a  few  hundred 
yards  distant,  until  his  eyes  rested  on  three 
empty  canoes.  He  called  to  Father  Claude's 
canoe,  and  both,  at  his  order,  headed  for  the 
shore.  As  they  drew  near,  half  a  score  of 
Indians  came  from  the  brush. 

"  Why,"  said  the  maid,  "  there  are  some  of  the 
men  who  brought  us  to  the  lake." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Menard,  "  it  is  the  Long 
Arrow's  band." 

He  leaped  out  of  the  canoe  before  it  touched 
the  beach,  and  walked  sternly  up  to  the 
group  of  warriors.  He  knew  why  they  were 
there.  It  was  what  he  had  expected.  When 
they  had  discovered  the  death  of  the  Long 
Arrow  there  had  been  rage  and  consternation. 
Disputes  had  followed,  the  band  had  divided, 
and  a  part  had  crossed  the  lake  to  hunt  the 
trail  of  the  Big  Buffalo.  He  folded  his  arms 
and  gave  them  a  long,  contemptuous  look. 

"  Why  do  the  Onondagas  seek  the  trail  of  the 
Big  Buffalo  ?  Do  they  think  to  overtake  him  ? 
Do  they  think  that  all  their  hands  together  are 
strong  enough  to  hold  him  ?  Did  they  think 
that  they  could  lie  to  the  White  Chief,  could 
play  the  traitor,  and  go  unpunished  ? " 


NORTHWARD. 


357 


Only  one  or  two  of  the  Onondagas  had  their 
muskets  in  their  hands.  They  all  showed 
fright,  and  one  was  edging  toward  the  wood. 
The  Cayugas  in  the  canoes,  at  a  word  from 
Father  Claude,  had  raised  their  muskets. 
Menard  saw  the  movement  from  the  corner 
of  his  eye,  and  for  the  moment  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  the  action.  It  was  a  question  whether 
the  Cayugas  could  actually  be  brought  to  fire 
on  their  Onondaga  brothers.  Still,  this  band 
had  defied  the  law  of  the  council,  and  might,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Indians,  bring  down  another 
war  upon  the  nation  by  their  act.  While  he 
spoke,  the  Captain  had  been  deciding  on  a 
course.  He  now  walked  boldly  up  to  the  man 
who  was  nearest  the  bushes,  and  snatched 
away  his  musket.  There  was  a  stir  and 
a  murmur,  but  without  heeding,  he  took 
also  the  only  other  musket  in  the  party, 
and  stepped  between  the  Indians  and  the 
forest. 

"Stand  where  you  are,  or  I  will  kill  you. 
One  man"  —  he  pointed  to  a  youth  —  "will 
go  into  the  forest  and  bring  your  muskets  to 
the  canoes." 

They  hesitated,  but  Menard  held  his  piece 
ready  to  fire,  and  the  Cayugas  did  the  same. 


358  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

At  last  the  youth  went  sullenly  into  the  bushes 
and  brought  out  an  armful  of  muskets. 

"  Count  them,  Father,"  Menard  called  in 
French. 

The  priest  did  so,  and  then  ran  his  eye  over 
the  party  on  the  beach. 

"  There  are  two  missing,  M'sieu." 

Menard  turned  to  the  youth,  who,  though 
he  had  not  understood  the  words,  caught  their 
spirit  and  hurried  back  for  the  missing  weap- 
ons. Then  the  Captain  walked  coolly  past 
them,  and  took  his  place  in  the  canoe.  For  a 
long  time,  as  they  paddled  up  the  lake,  they 
could  see  the  Onondagas  moving  about  the 
beach,  and  could  hear  their  angry  voices. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    ONLY    WAY. 

"\  KT'HEN  at  last  the  canoe  slipped  from  the 
"  ^  confines  of  river  and  hills  and  forest  out 
upon  the  great  Lake  Ontario,  where  the  green 
water  stretched  flat,  east  and  north  and  west  to 
the  horizon,  the  Cayuga  warriors  said  farewell 
and  turned  again  to  their  own  lands.  It  was  at 
noon  of  a  bright  day.  The  water  lay  close  to 
the  white  beach,  with  hardly  a  ripple  to  mar  the 
long  black  scallops  of  weed  and  drift  which  the 
last  storm  had  left  on  the  sand.  The  sky  was 
fair  and  the  air  sweet. 

In  the  one  canoe  which  the  Cayugas  had  left 
to  them,  the  little  party  headed  to  the  east,  now 
skimming  close  to  the  silent  beach,  now  cut- 
ting a  straight  path  across  some  bay  from  point 
to  point,  out  over  the  depths  where  lay  the 
sturgeon  and  the  pickerel  and  trout  and  white- 
fish.  The  gulls  swooped  at  them;  then,  fright- 
ened, soared  away  in  wide,  rushing  circles, 

359 


360  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

dropping  here  and  there  for  an  overbold  minnow. 
The  afternoon  went  by  with  hardly  the  passing 
of  a  word.  Each  of  them,  the  Captain,  the 
maid,  the  priest,  looked  over  the  burnished  wa- 
ter, now  a  fair  green  or  blue  sheet,  now  a  space 
of  striped  yellow  and  green  and  purple,  newly 
marked  by  every  phase  of  sun  and  cloud ;  and 
to  each  it  meant  that  the  journey  was  done. 
Here  was  solitude,  with  none  of  the  stir  of  the 
forest  to  bring  companionship;  but  as  they 
looked  out  to  the  cloud-puffs  that  dipped  be- 
hind the  water  at  the  world's  end,  they  knew 
that  far  yonder  were  other  men  whose  skins 
were  white,  for  all  of  beard  and  tan,  whose 
tongue  was  the  tongue  of  Montreal,  of  Quebec, 
of  Paris,  —  and  neither  tree  nor  rock  nor  moun- 
tain lay  between.  The  water  that  bore  them 
onward  was  the  water  that  washed  the  beach 
at  Frontenac.  Days  might  pass  and  find  them 
still  on  the  road;  but  they  would  be  glori- 
ous days,  with  the  sun  overhead  and  the  breeze 
at  their  backs,  and  at  evening  the  wonder  of  the 
western  sky  to  make  the  water  golden  with 
promise.  As  they  swung  their  paddles,  the 
maid  with  them,  their  eyes  were  full  of  dreams, 
—  all  save  Teganouan.  His  eyes  were  keen 
and  cunning,  and  when  they  looked  to  the 


THE   ONLY  WAY.  361 

north  it  was  not  with  thoughts  of  home.  It  may 
be  that  he  was  dreaming  of  the  deed  which 
might  yet  win  back  his  lost  name  as  an  Onon- 
daga  warrior. 

The  sun  hung  over  the  lake  when  at  last 
the  canoe  touched  the  beach.  They  ate  their 
simple  meal  almost  in  silence,  and  then  sat  near 
the  fire  watching  the  afterglow  that  did  not 
fade  from  the  west  until  the  night  was  dark 
and  the  moon  high  over  the  dim  line  that 
marked  the  eastern  end  of  the  lake.  The 
sense  of  relief  that  had  come  to  them  with  the 
first  sight  of  the  lake  was  fading  now.  They 
were  thinking  of  Frontenac,  and  of  what  might 
await  them  there,  —  the  priest  soberly,  the 
maid  bravely,  the  Captain  grimly.  Later, 
when  the  maid  had  said  good-night,  and  Father 
Claude  had  wandered  down  the  beach  to  the 
water's  edge,  Menard  dragged  a  new  log  to  the 
fire  and  threw  it  on,  sending  up  the  flame  and 
sparks  high  above  the  willows  of  the  bank.  He 
stretched  out  and  looked  into  the  flames. 

Teganouan,  who  had  been  lying  on  the  sand, 
heard  a  rustle  far  off  in  the  forest  and  raised 
his  head.  He  heard  it  again,  and  rose,  stand- 
ing motionless ;  then  he  took  his  musket  and 
came  toward  the  fire.  The  Captain  lay  at  full 


362  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

length,  his  chin  on  his  hands.  He  was  awake, 
for  his  eyes  were  open,  but  he  did  not  look  up. 
The  Indian  hesitated,  and  stood  a  few  yards 
away  looking  at  the  silent  figure,  as  if  uncer- 
tain whether  to  speak.  Finally  he  stepped 
back  and  disappeared  among  the  willows. 

Half  an  hour  went  by.  Father  Claude  came 
up  the  beach,  walking  slowly. 

"  It  is  growing  late,  M'sieu,  for  travellers." 

Menard  glanced  up,  but  did  not  reply.  The 
priest  was  looking  about  the  camp. 

"•  Where  is  Teganouan,  M'sieu  ?  Did  you 
give  him  permission  to  go  away  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he  is  here,  —  he  was  here."  Menard 
rose.  "  You  are  right,  he  has  gone.  Has  he 
taken  his  musket  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.     I  do  not  see  it. " 

"  He  left  it  leaning  against  the  log.  No ;  it 
is  not  there.  Wait,  —  do  you  hear  ?  " 

They  stood  listening,  and  both  caught  the 
faint  sound  of  a  body  moving  between  the 
bushes  that  grew  on  the  higher  ground,  close 
to  the  line  of  willows.  Menard  took  up  his 
musket  and  held  it  ready,  for  they  had  not  left 
the  country  of  the  Iroquois. 

"  Here  he  comes,"  whispered  Father  Claude. 
"  Yes,  it  is  Teganouan." 


THE  ONLY  WAY.  363 

The  Indian  was  running  toward  them.  He 
dropped  his  musket,  and  began  rapidly  to  throw 
great  handfuls  of  sand  upon  the  fire.  The  two 
white  men  sprang  to  aid  him,  without  asking 
an  explanation.  In  a  moment  the  beach  was 
lighted  only  by  the  moon.  Then  Menard 
said :  — 

"  What  is  it,  Teganouan  ?  " 

"  Teganouan  heard  a  step  in  the  forest.  He 
went  nearer,  and  there  were  more.  They  are 
on  the  war-path,  for  they  come  cautiously  and 
slowly." 

"  Father,  will  you  keep  by  the  maid  ?  We 
must  not  disturb  her  now.  You  had  better  heap 
up  the  sand  about  the  canoe  so  that  no  stray 
ball  can  reach  her." 

The  priest  hurried  down  the  beach,  and 
Menard  and  the  Indian  slipped  into  the  willows, 
Menard  toward  the  east,  Teganouan  toward  the 
west,  where  they  could  watch  the  forest  and 
the  beach  on  all  sides.  The  sound  of  an  ap- 
proaching party  was  now  more  distinct.  There 
would  be  a  long  silence,  then  the  crackle  of  a 
twig  or  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves ;  and  Menard 
knew  that  the  sound  was  made  by  moccasined 
feet.  He  was  surprised  that  the  invaders  took 
so  little  caution ;  either  they  were  confident  of 


364  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

finding  the  camp  asleep,  or  they  were  in  such 
force  as  to  have  no  fear.  While  he  lay  behind 
a  scrub  willow  conjecturing,  Father  Claude 
came  creeping  up  behind  him. 

"  I  will  watch  with  you,  M'sieu.  It  will  make 
our  line  longer." 

"  Is  she  safe  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  have  heaped  the  sand  high  around 
the  canoe,  even  on  the  side  toward  the  water." 

"  Good.  You  had  better  move  off  a  little 
nearer  the  lake,  and  keep  a  sharp  eye  out.  It 
may  be  that  they  are  coming  by  water  as  well, 
though  I  doubt  it.  The  lake  is  very  light.  I 
will  take  the  centre.  You  have  no  musket  ? " 

"  No ;  but  my  eyes  are  good." 

"  If  you  need  me,  I  shall  be  close  to  the 
bushes,  a  dozen  yards  farther  inland." 

They  separated,  and  Menard  took  up  his 
new  position.  Apparently  the  movement  had 
stopped.  For  a  long  time  no  sound  came,  and 
then,  as  Menard  was  on  the  point  of  moving 
forward,  a  branch  cracked  sharply  not  twenty 
rods  away.  He  called  in  French :  — 

"  Who  are  you  ? " 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  a  rush 
of  feet  in  his  direction.  He  could  hear  a  num- 
ber of  men  bounding  through  the  bushes.  He 


THE   ONLY   WAY.  365 

cocked  his  gun  and  levelled  it,  shouting  this 
time  in  Iroquois  :  — 

"  Stand,  or  I  will  fire  !  " 

"  I  know  that  voice !  Drop  your  musket !  " 
came  in  a  'merry  French  voice,  and  in  another 
moment  a  sturdy  figure,  half  in  uniform  and 
half  in  buckskin,  bearded  beyond  recognition, 
had  come  crashing  down  the  slope,  throwing 
his  arms  around  the  Captain's  neck  so  wildly 
that  the  two  went  down  and  rolled  on  the  sand. 
Before  Menard  could  struggle  to  his  feet,  three 
soldiers  had  followed,  and  stood  laughing,  for- 
getting all  discipline,  and  one  was  saying  over 
and  over  to  the  other :  — 

"  It  is  Captain  Menard !  Don't  you  know 
him  ?  It  is  Captain  Menard  !  " 

"  You  don't  know  me,  Menard,  I  can  see  that. 
I  wish  I  could  take  the  beard  off,  but  I  can't. 
What  have  you  done  with  my  men  ? " 

Now  Menard  knew ;  it  was  Du  Peron. 

"  I  left  them  at  La  Gallette,"  he  said. 

"  I  haven't  seen  them  —  oh,  killed  ?  " 

Menard  nodded. 

"  Come  down  the  beach  and  tell  me  about  it. 
What  condition  are  you  in  ?  Have  you  any- 
body with  you  ?  "  Before  Menard  could  answer, 
he  said  to  one  of  the  soldiers :  — 


366  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

"  Go  back  and  tell  the  sergeant  to  bring  up 
the  canoes." 

They  walked  down  the  beach,  and  the  other 
soldiers  set  about  building  a  new  fire. 

"  Perhaps  I'd  better  begin  on  you,"  Menard 
said.  "  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  And  what 
in  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  coming  up  through 
the  woods  like  a  Mohawk  on  the  war-path  ? " 

The  Lieutenant  laughed. 

"  My  story  isn't  a  long  one.  I'm  cleaning 
up  our  base  of  supplies  at  La  Famine.  We've 
got  a  small  guard  there.  The  main  part  of  the 
rear-guard  is  back  at  Frontenac." 

"  Where  is  the  column  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  Niagara,  Denonville  and  all,  to 
build  a  fort.  They'll  give  it  to  De  Troyes,  I 
imagine.  It's  a  sort  of  triumphal  procession 
through  the  enemy's  country,  after  rooting  up 
the  Seneca  villages  and  fields  and  stockades 
until  you  can't  find  an  able-bodied  redskin  this 
side  of  the  Cayugas.  Oh,  I  didn't  answer  your 
other  question.  What  do  you  think  of  these  ?  " 
He  held  out  a  foot,  shod  in  a  moccasin.  "  You'd 
never  know  the  King's  troops  now,  Menard. 
We're  wearing  anything  we  can  pick  up.  I've 
got  a  dozen  canoes  a  quarter  of  a  league  down 
the  lake.  I  saw  your  fire,  and  thought  it  best 


THE   ONLY  WAY.  367 

to  reconnoitre  before  bringing  the  canoes  past." 
He  read  the  question  in  Menard's  glance.  "  We 
are  not  taking  out  much  time  for  sleep,  I  can 
tell  you.  It's  all  day  and  all  night  until  we  get 
La  Famine  cleared  up.  There  is  only  a  hand- 
ful of  men  there,  and  we're  expecting  every  day 
that  the  Cayugas  and  Onondagas  will  sweep 
down  on  them." 

"  They  won't  bother  you,"  said  Menard. 

"  Maybe  not,  but  we  must  be  careful.  For 
my  part,  I  look  for  trouble.  The  nations  stand 
pretty  closely  by  each  other,  you  know." 

"  They  won't  bother  you  now." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? " 

"  What  did  I  come  down  here  for  ? " 

"  They  didn't  tell  me.     Oh,  you  had  a  mis- 
sion to  the  other  nations  ?    But  that  can't  be,  - 
you  were  captured." 

Menard  lay  on  his  side,  and  watched  the 
flames  go  roaring  upward  as  the  soldiers  piled 
up  the  logs. 

"  I  could  tell  you  some  things,  Du  Peron," 
he  said  slowly.    "  I  suppose  you  didn't  know,— 
for  that  matter  you  couldn't  know,  —  but  when 
the  column  was  marching  on  the  Senecas,  and 
our  rear-guard  of  four  hundred  men  —  " 

"  Four  hundred  and  forty." 


368  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  The  same  thing.  You  can't  expect  the 
Cayugas  to  count  so  sharply  as  that.  At  that 
time  the  Cayugas  and  Onondagas  held  a  coun- 
cil to  discuss  the  question  of  sending  a  thou- 
sand warriors  to  cut  off  the  rear-guard  and  the 
Governor's  communications." 

The  Lieutenant  slowly  whistled. 

"  How  did  they  know  so  much  about  it, 
Menard  ? " 

"  How  could  they  help  it  ?  Our  good  Gov- 
ernor had  posted  his  plans  on  every  tree.  You 
can  see  what  would  have  happened." 

"  Why,  with  the  Senecas  on  his  front  it 
would  have  been  —  "  He  paused,  and  whistled 
again. 

"  Well,  —  you  see.     But  they  didn't  do  it." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  spoke  at  that  council." 

"  You  spoke  —  but  you  were  a  prisoner, 
weren't  you  ? " 

"  Yes." 

The  Lieutenant  sat  staring  into  the  fire. 
Slowly  it  came  to  him  what  it  was  that  the 
Captain  had  accomplished. 

"  Why,  Menard,"  he  said,  "  New  France 
won't  be  able  to  hold  you,  when  this  gets  out. 
How  you  must  have  gone  at  them.  You'll  be 


THE  ONLY  WAY.  369 

a  major  in  a  week.  You're  the  luckiest  man 
this  side  of  Versailles." 

"  No,  I'm  not.  And  I  won't  be  a  major. 
I'm  not  on  the  Governor's  pocket  list.  But  I 
don't  care  about  that.  That  isn't  the  reason  I 
did  it." 

"  Why  did  you  do  it  then  ?  " 

"  I  - —  That's  the  question  I've  been  asking 
myself -for  several  days,  Du  Peron." 

The  Lieutenant  was  too  thoroughly  aroused 
to  note  the  change  in  the  Captain's  tone. 

"  You  don't  see  it  right  now,  Menard.  Wait 
till  you've  reached  the  city,  and  got  into  some 
clothes  and  a  good  bed,  and  can  shake  hands 
with  d'Orvilliers  and  Provost  and  the  general 
staff,  —  maybe  with  the  Governor  himself. 
Then  you'll  feel  different.  You're  down  now. 
I  know  how  it  feels.  You're  all  tired  out,  and 
you've  got  the  Onondaga  dirt  rubbed  on  so 
thick  that  you're  lost  in  it.  You  wait  a  few 
weeks." 

"  Did  the  Governor  have  much  trouble  with 
the  Senecas  ? " 

"Oh,  he  had  to  fight  for  it.  He  was  — 
My  God,  Menard,  what  about  the  girl  ?  I  was 
so  shaken  up  at  meeting  you  like  this  that  it 
got  away  from  me.  The  column  had  hardly 


370  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

got  to  the  fort  on  their  way  up  from  Montreal 
before  everyone  was  asking  for  you.  La 
Grange  had  a  letter  from  her  father  saying  that 
she  was  with  you,  and  he's  been  in  a  bad  way. 
He  says  that  he  was  to  have  married  her,  and 
that  you've  got  away  with  her.  It  serves  him 
right,  the  beast.  One  night,  at  La  Famine,  he 
was  drunk,  and  he  came  around  to  all  of  us 
reading  that  letter  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and 
swearing  to  kill  you  the  moment  he  sees  you. 
He's  been  talking  a  good  deal  about  that." 

"  She  is  here,  asleep." 

"  Thank  God." 

"  Where  is  La  Grange  now  ?  " 

"  He's  over  at  Frontenac.  He  got  into  trou- 
ble before  we  left  La  Famine.  He's  drinking 
hard  now,  you  know.  He  had  command  of  a 
company  that  was  working  on  the  stockades, 
and  he  made  such  a  muss  of  it  that  his  ser- 
geant had  to  take  hold  and  handle  it  to  get 
the  work  done  at  all.  You  can  imagine  what 
bad  feeling  that  made  in  his  company.  Played 
the  devil  with  his  discipline.  Well,  he  took 
it  like  a  child.  But  that  night,  when  he 
got  a  little  loose  on  his  legs,  he  hunted  up  the 
sergeant  and  made  him  fight.  The  fellow 
wouldn't  until  La  Grange  came  at  him  with 


THE  ONLY  WAY.  371 

his  sword,  but  then  he  cracked  his  head  with 
a  musket." 

"  Hurt  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.  They  took  him  up  to  Frontenac. 
He's  in  the  hospital  now,  but  it's  pretty  gen- 
erally understood  that  d'Orvilliers  won't  let 
him  go  out  until  the  Governor  gets  back  from 
Niagara.  He's  well  enough  already,  they  say. 
It's  hard  on  the  sergeant,  too ;  no  one  blames 
him." 

Du  Peron  looked  around  and  saw  Tegan- 
ouan  lying  near. 

"  Who's  this  Indian  ? "  he  asked  in  a  low 
tone. 

"  He  is  with  me.     A  mission  Indian." 

"  Does  he  know  French  ?  Has  he  under- 
stood us  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  so.  Here  is 
Father  Claude  de  Casson.  You  remember 
him,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

The  Lieutenant  rose  to  greet  the  priest,  and 
then  the  three  sat  together. 

"You  asked  me  about  the  fight,  didn't  you, 
Menard  ?  I  don't  seem  able  to  hold  to  a  sub- 
ject very  long  to-night.  We  struck  out  from 
La  Famine  on  the  morning  of  the  twelfth  of 


372  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

July.  You  know  the  trail  that  leads  south 
from  La  Famine  ?  We  followed  that." 

Menard  smiled  at  the  leaping  fire. 

"  Don't  laugh,  Menard ;  that  was  no  worse 
than  what  we've  done  from  the  start.  The 
Governor  never  thought  but  what  we'd  sur- 
prise them  as  much  on  that  road  as  on  another. 
And  after  all,  we  won,  though  it  did  look  bad 
for  a  while.  There  was  a  time,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fight,  —  well,  I'm  getting  ahead  of 
myself  again.  We  were  in  fairly  good  order. 
Callieres  had  the  advance  with  the  Montreal 
troops.  He  threw  out  La  Durantaye,  with 
Tonty  and  Du  Luth,  —  the  coureurs  de  bois, 
you  know,  —  to  feel  the  way.  La  Durantaye 
had  the  mission  Indians,  from  Sault  St.  Louis 
and  the  Montreal  Mountain,  on  his  left,  and 
the  Ottawas  and  Mackinac  tribes  on  his  right." 

"  How  did  the  Ottawas  behave  ? " 

"Wretchedly.  They  ran  at  the  first  fire.  I'll 
come  to  that.  The  others  weren't  so  bad,  but 
there  was  no  holding  them.  They  spread 
through  the  forest,  away  out  of  reach.  Perrot 
had  the  command,  but  he  could  only  follow 
after  and  knock  one  down  now  and  then." 

"  The  Governor  took  command  of  the  main 
force?" 


THE  ONLY  WAY.  373 

"Yes.  And  he  carried  his  bale  like  the 
worst  of  us;  I'll  say  that  for  him.  It  was  hot, 
and  we  all  drooped  a  bit  before  night.  And 
he  made  a  good  fight,  too,  if  you  can  forgive 
him  that  bungling  march.  When  we  bivou- 
acked, some  of  Du  Luth's  boys  scouted  ahead. 
They  got  in  by  sunrise.  They'd  been  to  the 
main  village  of  the  Senecas  on  the  hill  beyond 
the  marsh,  —  you  know  it,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  they  saw  nothing  but  a  few  women 
and  a  pack  of  dogs.  The  Governor  was  up 
early,  —  he's  not  used  to  sleeping  out  doors  in 
the  mosquito  country,  —  sitting  on  a  log  at  the 
side  of  the  trail,  talking  with  Granville  and 
Berthier.  I  wasn't  five  yards  behind  them, 
trying  to  scrape  the  mud  off  my  boots  —  you 
know  how  that  mud  sticks,  Menard.  Well, 
when  the  scouts  came  in  with  their  story,  the 
Governor  stood  up.  '  Take  my  order  to  La 
Durantaye,'  he  said,  '  that  he  is  to  move  on 
with  all  caution,  that  the  surprise  may  be  com- 
plete. He  will  push  forward,  following  the 
trail.  You,'  he  said,  to  a  few  aides  who  stood 
by,  '  will  see  that  the  command  is  aroused  as 
silently  as  possible.'  Well,  I  didn't  know 
whether  to  laugh  at  the  Governor  or  pity  my- 


374  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

self  and  the  boys.  Any  man  but  the  crowd 
of  seigniors  that  he  had  about  him  would  have 
foreseen  what  was  coming.  I  knew  that  the 
devils  were  waiting  for  us,  probably  at  one  of 
the  ravines  where  the  trail  runs  through  that 
group  of  hills  just  this  side  of  the  marsh.  You 
know  the  place,  —  every  one  of  us  knows  it. 
But  what  could  we  say?  I'd  have  given  a 
month's  pay  to  have  been  within  ear-shot  of  La 
Durantaye  when  he  got  the  order.  La  Valterie 
told  me  about  it  afterward.  '  What's  this  ? '  he 
says, '  follow  the  trail  ?  I'll  go  to  the  devil  first. 
There's  a  better  place  for  my  bones  than  this 
pest-ridden  country.'  He  calls  to  Du  Luth: 
'  Hear  this,  Du  Luth.  We're  to  "  push  for- 
ward, following  the  trail."  :  I  can  fairly  hear 
him  say  it,  with  his  eyes  looking  right  through 
the  young  aide.  '  Not  I,'  says  Du  Luth,  '  I'm 
going  around  the  hills  and  come  into  the  vil- 
lage over  the  long  oak  ridge ! '  '  You  can't  do 
it.  I  have  the  Governor's  order.'  And  then 
Du  Luth  drew  himself  up,  La  Valterie  says, 
and  looked  the  aide  (who  wasn't  used  to  this 
kind  of  a  soldier,  and  wished  himself  back 
under  the  Governor's  petticoats)  up  and  down 
till  the  fellow  got  red  as  a  Lower  Town  girl. 
1  Tell  your  commanding  officer,'  says  Du  Luth, 


THE   ONLY   WAY.  375 

in  his  big  voice,  '  that  the  advance  will  "  push 
forward,  following  the  trail,"  •  -  and  may  God 
have  mercy  on  our  poor  souls ! ' 

"Well,  Menard,  they  did  it,  nine  hundred 
of  them.  And  we  came  on,  a  quarter  of  a 
league  after,  with  sixteen  hundred  more.  We 
got  into  the  first  defile,  and  through  it,  with 
never  a  sound.  Then  I  was  sure  of  trouble 
in  the  second,  but  long  after  the  advance  had 
had  time  to  get  through,  everything  was  still. 
There  was  still  the  third  defile,  just  before  you 
reach  the  marsh,  and  my  head  was  spinning, 
waiting  for  the  first  shot  and  wondering  where 
we  were  to  catch  it  and  how  many  of  us  were 
to  get  out  alive.  And  then,  all  at  once  it 
came.  You  see  the  Senecas,  three  hundred 
of  them  at  least,  were  in  the  brush  up  on  the 
right  slope  of  the  third  defile;  and  as  many 
more  were  in  the  elder  thickets  and  swamp 
grass  ahead  and  to  the  left.  They  let  the 
whole  advance  get  through,  —  fooled  every 
man  of  Du  Luth's  scouts, — and  then  came 
at  them  from  all  sides.  We  heard  the  noise 
—  I  never  heard  a  worse  —  and  started  up  on 
the  run ;  and  then  there  was  the  strangest 
mess  I  ever  got  into.  They  had  surprised  the 
advance,  right  enough,  —  we  could  see 


376  THE  ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Luth  and  Tonty  running  about  knocking  men 
down  and  bellowing  out  orders  to  hold  their 
force  together,  —  but  you  see  the  Senecas 
never  dreamed  that  a  larger  force  was  coming 
on  behind,  and  we  struck  them  like  a  whirl- 
wind. Well,  for  nearly  an  hour  we  didn't 
know  what  was  going  on.  Our  Indians  and 
the  Senecas  were  so  mixed  together  that  we 
dared  not  shoot  to  kill.  Our  own  boys,  even 
the  regulars,  lost  their  heads  and  fell  into  the 
tangle.  It  was  all  yelling  and  whooping  and 
banging  and  running  around,  with  the  smoke  so 
thick  that  you  couldn't  find  the  trail  or  the  hills 
or  the  swamp.  I  was  crowded  up  to  my  arms 
in  water  and  mud  for  the  last  part  of  the  time. 
Once  the  smoke  lifted  a  little,  and  I  saw  what 
I  thought  to  be  a  mission  Indian,  not  five 
yards  away,  in  the  same  fix.  I  called  to  him 
to  help  me,  and  he  turned  out  to  be  a  Seneca 
chief.  Our  muskets  were  wet,  —  at  least  mine 
was,  and  I  saw  that  he  dropped  his  when  he 
started  for  me,  —  so  we  had  it  out  with 
knives." 

"  Did  he  get  at  you  ?  " 

"  Once.  A  rib  stopped  it  —  no  harm  done. 
Well,  I  was  tired,  but  I  got  out  and  dodged 
around  through  the  smoke  to  find  out  where 


THE  ONLY  WAY.  377 

our  boys  were,  but  they  were  mixed  up  worse 
than  ever.  I  was  just  in  time  to  save  a  coureur 
from  killing  one  of  our  Indians  with  his  own 
hatchet.  Most  of  the  regulars  scattered  as 
soon  as  they  lost  sight  of  their  officers.  And 
Berthier,  —  I  found  him  lying  under  a  log  all 
gone  to  pieces  with  fright. 

"  I  didn't  know  how  it  was  to  come  out 
until  at  last  the  firing  eased  a  little,  and  the 
smoke  thinned  out.  Then  we  found  that  the 
devils  had  .slipped  away,  all  but  a  few  who  had 
wandered  so  far  into  our  lines  —  if  you  could 
call  them  lines  —  that  they  couldn't  get  out. 
They  carried  most  of  their  killed,  though  we 
picked  up  a  few  on  the  edge  of  the  marsh. 
It  took  all  the  rest  of  the  day  to  pull  things 
together  and  find  out  how  we  stood." 

"  Heavy  loss  ?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  know  how  many,  but  beyond 
a  hundred  or  so  of  cuts  and  flesh-wounds  like 
mine  we  seemed  to  have  a  full  force.  We 
went  on  in  the  morning,  after  a  puffed-out 
speech  by  the  Governor,  and  before  night 
reached  the  village.  The  Senecas  had  already 
burned  a  part  of  it,  but  we  finished  it,  and 
spent  close  to  ten  days  cutting  their  corn  and 
destroying  the  fort  on  the  big  hill,  a  league 


378  THE   ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

or  more  to  the  east.  Then  we  came  back  to 
La  Famine,  and  the  Governor  took  the  whole 
column  to  Niagara,  —  to  complete  the  parade, 
I  suppose." 

The  story  told,  they  sat  by  the  fire,  silent 
at  first,  then  talking  as  the  mood  prompted, 
until  the  flames  had  died  and  the  red  embers 
were  fading  to  gray.  Father  Claude  had 
stretched  out  and  was  sleeping. 

"  I  must  look  about  my  camp,"  Du  Peron 
said  at  length.  "  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  said  Menard ;  and  alone  he 
sat  there  until  the  last  spark  had  left  the  scat- 
tered heap  of  charred  wood. 

The  night  was  cold  and  clear.  The  lake 
stretched  out  to  a  misty  somewhere,  touching 
the  edge  of  the  sky.  He  rose  and  walked 
toward  the  water.  A  figure,  muffled  in  a 
blanket  stood  on  the  dark,  firm  sand  close  to 
the  breaking  ripples.  He  thought  it  was  one 
of  Du  Peron's  sentries,  but  a  doubt  drew 
him  nearer.  Then  the  blanket  was  thrown 
aside,  and  he  recognized,  in  the  moonlight,  tho 
slender  figure  of  the  maid.  She  was  gazing 
out  toward  the  pole-star  and  the  dim  clouds 
that  lay  motionless  beneath  it.  The  splash  of 
the  lake  and  the  call  of  the  locusts  and  tree- 


THE  ONLY  WAY.  379 

toads  on  the  bank  behind  them  were  the  only 
sounds.  He  went  slowly  forward  and  stood 
by  her  side.  She  looked  up  into  his  eyes, 
then  turned  to  the  lake.  She  had  dropped 
the  blanket  to  the  sand,  and  he  placed  it  again 
about  her  shoulders. 

"  I  am  not  cold,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Mademoiselle.    The  air  is  chill." 

They  stood  for  a  long  time  without  speaking, 
while  the  northern  clouds  sank  slowly  beneath 
the  horizon,  their  tops  gleaming  white  in  the 
moonlight.  Once  a  sharp  command  rang 
through  the  night,  and  muskets  rattled. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  she  whispered,  touching  his 
arm. 

"  They  are  changing  the  guard." 

"You  will  not  need  to  watch  to-night, 
M'sieu  ? " 

"  No ;  not  again.  We  shall  have  an  escort  to 
Frontenac."  He  paused ;  then  added  in  uncer- 
tain voice,  "  but  perhaps  —  if  Mademoiselle  - 

She  locked  up  at  him.     He  went  on : 

"  I  will  watch  to-night,  and  to-morrow  night, 
and  once  again  —  then  there  will  be  no  need : 
we  shall  be  at  Frontenac.  Yes,  I  will  watch  ;  I 
will  myself  keep  guard,  that  Mademoiselle  may 
sleep  safely. and  deep,  as  she  slept  at  the  Long 


380  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Lake  and  in  the  forests  of  the  Cayugas.  And 
perhaps,  while  she  is  sleeping,  and  the  lake  lies 
still,  I  may  dream  again  as  I  did  then  —  I  will 
carry  on  our  story  to  the  end,  and  then  - 

He  could  not  say  more ;  he  could  not  look  at 
her.  Even  at  the  rustle  of  her  skirt,  as  she 
sank  to  the  beach  and  sat  gazing  up  at  him,  he 
did  not  turn.  He  was  looking  dully  at  the  last 
bright  cloud  tip,  sinking  slowly  from  his  sight. 

"  Frontenac  lies  there,"  he  said.  "  I  told  them 
I  should  bring  you  there.  It  has  been  a  longer 
road  than  we  thought,  —  it  has  been  a  harder 
road,  —  and  they  have  said  that  I  broke  my 
trust.  Perhaps  they  were  not  wrong  —  I  would 
have  broken  it  —  once.  But  we  shall  be  there 
in  three  days.  I  will  keep  my  promise  to  the 
chiefs  ;  and  we  —  we  shall  not  meet  again.  It 
will  be  better.  But  I  shall  keep  watch,  to-night 
and  twice  again.  That  will  be  all." 

He  looked  down,  and  at  sight  of  the  mute 
figure  his  face  softened. 

"  Forgive  me  —  I  should  not  have  spoken. 
It  has  been  a  mad  dream  —  the  waking  is  hard. 
When  I  saw  you  standing  here  to-night,  I  knew 
that  I  had  no  right  to  come  —  and  still  I  came. 
I  have  called  myself  a  soldier "  —  his  voice 
was  weary  —  "  see,  this  is  what  is  done  to  sol- 


THE   ONLY    WAY.  381 

diers  such  as  I."  One  frayed  strip  of  an  epau- 
let yet  hung  from  his  shoulder.  He  tore  it 
off  and  threw  it  out  into  the  lake.  A  little 
splash,  and  it  was  gone.  "Good-night,  Mad- 
emoiselle, —  good-night." 

He  turned  away.  The  maid  leaned  forward 
and  called.  Her  voice  would  not  come.  She 
called  again  and  again.  Then  he  heard,  for  he 
stood  motionless. 

"  M'sieu ! " 

He  came  back  slowly,  and  stood  waiting. 
She  was  leaning  back  on  her  hands.  Her  hair 
had  fallen  over  her  face,  and  she  shook  it  back, 
gazing  up  and  trying  to  speak. 

"  You  said  —  you  said,  the  end  —  " 

He  hesitated,  as  if  he  dared  not  meet  his 
thoughts. 

"  You  said  —  See,"  she  fumbled  hastily  at 
her  bosom,  "  see,  I  have  kept  it." 

She  was  holding  something  up  to  him.  In 
the  dim  light  he  could  not  make  it  out.  He 
took  it  and  held  it  up.  It  was  the  dried  stem 
and  the  crumbling  blossom  of  a  daisy.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  kept  it  there,  then,  while  he  looked,  he 
reached  into  "his  pocket  and  drew  out  the  other. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  yes  — '  His  voice  trembled ; 
his  hand  shook.  Her  hair  had  fallen  again,  and 


382  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

she  was  trying  to  fasten  it  back.  He  looked  at 
her,  almost  fiercely,  but  now  her  eyes  were  hid- 
den. "  We  will  go  to  Frontenac ;  "  he  said ;  "  we 
will  go  to  Frontenac,  you  and  I.  But  they 
shall  not  get  you."  He  caught  the  hands  that 
were  braiding  her  hair,  and  held  them  in  his 
rough  grip.  "  It  is  too  late.  Let  them  break  my 
sword,  if  they  will,  still  they  shall  not  get  you." 

Her  head  dropped  upon  his  hands,  and  for 
the  second  time  since  those  days  at  Onondaga, 
he  felt  her  tears.  For  a  moment  they  were 
motionless ;  he  erect,  looking  out  to  the  pole-star 
and  over  the  water  that  stretched  far  away  to 
the  stone  fort,  she  sobbing  and  clinging  to  his 
scarred  hands.  Then  a  desperate  look  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  he  dropped  on  one  knee  and 
caught  her  shoulders  and  held  her  tightly,  close 
against  him. 

"  See,"  he  said,  with  the  old  mad  ring  in  his 
voice,  "  see  what  a  soldier  I  am  !  See  how  I  keep 
my  trust !  But  now  —  but  now  it  is  too  late 
for  them  all.  I  am  still  a  soldier,  and  I  can 
fight,  Valerie.  And  God  will  be  good  to  us. 
God  grant  that  we  are  doing  right  There  is 
no  other  way." 

"  No,"  she  whispered  after  him;  "  there  is  no 
other  way." 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

FRONTENAC. 

THE  sun  was  dropping  behind  the  western 
*  forests.  From  the  lodges  and  cabins  of 
the  friendly  Indians  about  the  fort  rose  a  hun- 
dred thin  columns  of  smoke.  Long  rows  of 
bateaux  and  canoes  lined  the  beach  below  the 
log  palisade ;  and  others  drew  near  the  shore, 
laden  with  fish.  There  was  a  stir  and  bustle 
about  the  square  within  the  stone  bastions ; 
orderlies  hurried  from  quarters  to  barracks, 
bugles  sounded,  and  groups  of  ragged  soldiers 
sat  about,  polishing  muskets  and  belts,  and 
setting  new  flints.  Men  of  the  commissary 
department  were  carrying  boxes  and  bales  from 
the  fort  to  a  cleared  space  on  the  beach. 

Menard  walked  across  the  square  and 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Major  d'Orvilliers's 
little  house.  Many  an  eye  had  followed  him 
as  he  hurried  by,  aroused  to  curiosity  by  his 
tattered  uniform,  rusted  musket,  and  boot-tops 
rudely  stitched  to  deerskin  moccasins. 

383 


384        .      THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Major  d'Orvilliers  is  busy,"  said  the  orderly 
at  the  door. 

"  Tell  him  it  is  Captain  Menard." 

In  a  moment  the  Major  himself  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"  Come  in,  Menard.  I  am  to  start  in  an 
hour  or  so  to  meet  Governor  Denonville,  but 
there  is  always  time  for  you.  I'll  start  a  little 
late,  if  necessary." 

"  The  Governor  comes  from  Niagara  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  is  two  or  three  days'  journey  up 
the  lake.  I  am  to  escort  him  back." 

They  had  reached  the  office  in  the  rear  of 
the  house,  and  the  Major  brushed  a  heap  of 
documents  and  drawings  from  a  chair. 

"  Sit  down,  Menard.  You  have  a  long  story, 
I  take  it.  You  look  as  if  you'd  been  to  the 
Illinois  and  back." 

"  You  knew  of  my  capture  ?  " 

"  Yes.  We  had  about  given  you  up.  And 
the  girl,  —  Mademoiselle  St.  Denis  —  " 

"  She  is  here." 

"  Here  —  at  Frontenac  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  in  Father  dc  Casson's  care." 

"  Thank  God !  'But  how  did  you  do  it  ? 
How  did  you  get  her  here,  and  yourself  ? " 

Menard   rose  and  paced   up  and  down  the 


FRONTENAC.  385 

room.  As  he  walked,  he  told  the  story  of  the 
capture  at  La  Gallette,  of  the  days  in  the  Onon- 
daga  village,  of  the  council  and  the  escape. 
When  he  had  finished,  there  was  a  long  silence, 
while  the  Major  sat  with  contracted  brows. 

"You've  done  a  big  thing,  Menard,"  he  said 
at  last,  "one  of  the  biggest  things  that  has 
been  done  in  New  France.  But  have  you 
thought  of  the  Governor  —  of  how  he  will 
take  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  It  may  not  be  easy.  Denonville  doesn't 
know  the  Iroquois  as  you  and  I  do.  He  is 
elated  now  about  his  victory,  —  he  thinks  he 
has  settled  the  question  of  white  supremacy. 
If  I  were  to  tell  him  to-morrow  that  he  has 
only  made  a  bitter  enemy  of  the  Senecas,  and 
that  they  will  not  rest  until  they  wipe  out  this 
defeat,  do  you  suppose  he  would  believe  it? 
You  have  given  a  pledge  to  the  Iroquois  that 
is  entirely  outside  of  the  Governor's  view  of 
military  precedent.  To  tell  the  truth,  Menard, 
I  don't  believe  he  will  like  it." 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  doesn't  know  the  strength  of  the  Five 
Nations.  He  thinks  they  would  all  flee  before 
our  regulars  just  as  the  Senecas  did.  Worse 


386  THE    ROAD    TO    FRONTENAC. 

than  that,  he  doesn't  know  the  Indian  tempera- 
ment. I'm  afraid  you  can't  make  him  under- 
stand that  to  satisfy  their  hunger  for  revenge 
will  serve  better  than  a  score  of  orations  and 
treaties." 

"  You  think  he  won't  touch  La  Grange  ?" 

"  I  am  almost  certain  of  it." 

"  Then  it  rests  with  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  gave  another  pledge,  d'Orvilliers.  If  the 
Governor  won't  do  this  —  I  shall  have  to  do  it 
myself." 

Save  for  a  moment's  hesitation  Menard's 
voice  was  cool  and  even  ;  but  he  had  stopped 
walking  and  was  looking  closely  at  the  com- 
mandant. 

D'Orvilliers  was  gazing  at  the  floor. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? "  he  said 
slowly,  and  then  suddenly  he  got  up.  "  My 
God,  Menard,  you  don't  mean  that  you 
would  —  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  can't  be  !     I  'can't  allow  it." 

"  It  may  not  be  necessary.  I  hope  you  are 
mistaken  about  the  Governor." 

"  I  hope  I  am  —  but  no  ;  he  won't  help  you. 
He's  not  in  the  mood  for  paying  debts  to  a 


FRONTENAC.  387 

weakened  enemy.  And  —  Menard,  sit  down. 
I  must  talk  plainly  to  you.  I  can't  go  on 
covering  things  up  now.  I  don't  believe  you 
see  the  matter  clearly.  If  it  were  a  plain  ques- 
tion of  your  mission  to  the  Onondagas  —  if  it 
were  —  Well,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  in  what 
relation  you  stand  to  Mademoiselle  St.  Denis." 

The  Captain  was  standing  by  the  chair.  He 
rested  his  arms  on  the  high  back,  and  looked 
over  them  at  d'Orvilliers. 

"  She  is  to  be  my  wife,"  he  said. 

D'Orvilliers  leaned  back  and  slowly  shook 
his  head. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  when  your  story 
goes  to  Quebec,  when  the  Chateau  learns  that 
you  have  promised  the  punishment  of  La 
Grange  in  the  name  of  France,  and  then  of 
this,  —  of  Mademoiselle  and  her  relations  to 
yourself  and  to  La  Grange,  —  do  you  know 
what  they  will  do  ? " 

Menard  was  silent. 

"  They  will  laugh  —  first,  and  then  — ' 

"  I  know,"  said  the  Captain,  "  I  have  thought 
of  all  that." 

"  You  have  told  all  this  in  your  report  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  So  you  would  go  on  with  it  ?  " 


388  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  going  on  with  it.  There  is 
nothing  else  I  can  do.  I  couldn't  have  offered 
to  give  myself  up ;  they  already  had  me.  The 
fault  was  La  Grange's.  What  I  did  was  the 
only  thing  that  could  have  been  done  to  save 
the  column ;  if  you  will  think  it  over,  you  will 
see  that.  I  know  what  I  did, —  I  know  I  was 
right ;  and  if  my  superiors,  when  I  have  given 
my  report,  choose  to  see  it  in  another  way,  I 
have  nothing  to  say.  If  they  give  me  my 
liberty,  in  the  army  or  out  of  it,  I  will  find  La 
Grange.  If  not,  I  will  wait." 

"  Why  not  give  that  up,  at  least,  Menard  ?  " 

"  If  I  give  that  up,  we  shall  have  a  war  with 
the  Iroquois  that  will  shake  New  France  as  she 
has  never  been  shaken  before." 

D'Orvilliers  started  to  speak,  but  checked  the 
words.  Menard  slung  his  musket  behind  his 
shoulders. 

"  Wait,  Menard.  I  don't  know  what  to  say. 
I  must  have  time  to  think.  If  you  wish,  I  will 
not  give  notice  of  your  arrival  to  the  Governor. 
I  will  leave  the  matter  of  reporting  in  your 
hands."  He  rose,  and  fingered  the  papers  on 
the  table.  "  You  see  how  it  will  look  —  there 
is  the  maid  —  La  Grange  seeks  your  life,  you 
seek  his — " 


FRONTENAC.  389 

Menard  drew  himself  up,  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"  It  shall  be  pushed  to  the  end,  Major.  You 
know  me;  you  know  Captain  la  Grange. 
There  will  be  excitement,  perhaps,  —  you  may 
find  it  hard  to  avoid  taking  one  side  or  the 
other.  I  must  ask  which  side  is  to  be  yours." 

D'Orvilliers  winced,  and  for  a  moment  stood 
biting  his  lip;  then  he  stepped  forward  and 
took  both  Menard's  hands. 

"You  shouldn't  have  asked  that,"  he  said. 
"  God  bless  you,  Menard !  God  bless  you  ! " 

Menard  paused  in  the  door,  and  turned. 

"  Shall  I  need  a  pass  to  enter  the  hospital  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  can't  go  there.  La  Grange  is 
there." 

"  Yes;  I  will  report  to  him.  He  shall  not  say 
that  I  have  left  it  to  hearsay." 

"  But  he  will  attack  you ! " 

"No;  I  will  not  fight  him  until  I  have  an 
answer  from  the  Governor." 

"  You  can't  get  in  now  until  morning." 

"  Very  well,  good-night." 

"  You  will  be  careful,  Menard  ?  " 

The  Captain  nodded  and  left  the  room. 
Wishing  to  settle  his  thoughts,  he  passed 
through  the  palisade  gate  and  walked  down 
the  beach.  The  commissary  men  were  load- 


390  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

ing  the  canoes,  threescore  of  them,  that  were 
to  carry  the  garrison  on  its  westward  journey. 
Already  the  twilight  was  deepening,  and  the 
lanterns  of  the  officers  were  dimmed  by  the 
glow  from  a  hundred  Indian  camp-fires. 

From  within  the  fort  came  a  long  bugle-call. 
There  was  a  distant  rattling  of  arms  and  shout- 
ing of  commands,  then  the  tramp  of  feet,  and 
the  indistinct  line  came  swinging  through  the 
sally-port.  They  halted  at  the  water's  edge, 
broke  ranks,  and  took  to  the  canoes,  paddling 
easily  away  along  the  shore  until  they  had 
faded  into  shadows.  A  score  of  Indians  stood 
watching  them,  stolidly  smoking  stone  pipes 
and  holding  their  blankets  close  around  them. 

It  was  an  hour  later  when  the  Captain  re- 
turned to  the  fort  and  started  across  the  enclos- 
ure toward  the  hut  which  had  been  assigned  to 
him.  Save  for  a  few  Indians  and  a  sentry  who 
paced  before  the  barracks,  the  fort  seemed 
deserted.  It  was  nearly  dark  now,  and  the 
lanterns  at  the  sally-port  and  in  front  of  bar- 
rack and  hospital  glimmered  faintly.  Menard 
had  reached  his  own  door,  when  he  heard  a 
voice  calling,  and  turned.  A  dim  figure  was 
running  across  the  square  toward  the  sentry. 
There  was  a  moment  of  breathless  talk, — 


FRONTENAC.  39i 

Menard  could  not  catch  the  words,  —  then  the 
sentry  shouted.  It  occurred  to  Menard  that 
he  was  now  the  senior  officer  at  the  fort,  and 
he  waited.  A  corporal  led  up  his  guard,  halted, 
and  again  there  was  hurried  talking.  Menard 
started  back  toward  them,  but  before  he  reached 
the  spot  all  were  running  toward  the  hospital, 
and  a  dozen  others  of  the  home  guard  had 
gathered  before  the  barracks  and  were  talking 
and  asking  excited  questions. 

Menard  crossed  to  the  hospital.  Two  pri- 
vates barred  the  door,  and  he  was  forced  to 
wait  until  a  young  Lieutenant  of  the  regulars 
appeared.  The  lanterns  over  the  door  threw  a 
dim  light  on  the  Captain  as  he  stood  on  the 
low  step. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  Lieutenant.  "  You 
wished  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  Captain  Menard.  What  is  the  trou- 
ble?" 

The  Lieutenant  looked  doubtfully  at  the 
dingy,  bearded  figure,  then  he  motioned  the 
soldiers  aside. 

"  It  is  Captain  la  Grange,"  he  said,  when 
Menard  had  entered  ;  "  he  has  been  killed." 

The  Lieutenant  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone,  but  his  eyes  were  shining  and  he  was 


392  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

breathing  rapidly.  Menard  looked  at  him  for 
a  moment  without  a  word,  then  he  stepped  to 
the  door  of  a  back  room  and  looked  in.  Three 
flickering  candles  stood  on  a  low  table,  and 
another  on  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  narrow 
bed.  The  light  wavered  over  the  log  and  plaster 
walls.  A  surgeon  was  bending  over  the  bed, 
his  assistant  waiting  at  his  elbow  with  instru- 
ments ;  the  two  shut  off  the  upper  part  of  the 
bed  from  Menard's  view.  The  Lieutenant 
stood  behind  the  Captain,  looking  over  his 
shoulder;  both  were  motionless.  There  was 
no  sound  save  a  low  word  at  intervals  between 
the  two  surgeons,  and  the  creak  of  a  bore- 
worm  that  sounded  distinctly  from  a  log  in  the 
wall. 

Menard  turned  away  and  walked  back  to  the 
outer  door,  the  Lieutenant  with  him.  There 
they  stood,  silent,  as  men  are  who  have  been 
brought  suddenly  face  to  face  with  death.  At 
last  the  Lieutenant  began  to  speak  in  a  sub- 
dued voice. 

"  We  only  know  that  it  was  an  Indian.  He 
has  been  scalped." 

"Oh!"  muttered  Menard. 

"  I  think  he  is  still  breathing,  —  he  was  just 
before  you  came,  —  but  there  is  no  hope  for 


FRONTENAC.  393 

him.  He  was  stabbed  in  a  dozen  places.  It 
was  some  time  before  we  knew  —  the  Indian 
came  in  by  the  window,  and  must  have  found 
him  asleep.  There  was  no  struggle." 

They  stood  again  without  speaking,  and 
again  the  Lieutenant  broke  the  silence. 

"  It  is  too  bad.  He  was  a  good  fellow."  He 
paused,  as  if  searching  for  a  kind  word  for  Cap- 
tain la  Grange.  "  He  was  the  best  shot  at  the 
fort  when  he  —  when  —  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Menard.  He  too  wished  to  speak 
no  harsh  word.  "  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ? " 

"  I  think  not.  There  is  a  strong  guard  about 
the  fort,  but  I  think  the  Indian  had  escaped 
before  we  learned  of  it.  I  will  see  you  before 
we  take  further  steps." 

"Very  well.  I  shall  be  at  my  quarters. 
Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 

Menard  walked  slowly  back  across  the  en- 
closure. At  the  door  of  his  hut  he  paused, 
and  for  a  long  time  he  stood  there,  looking  up 
at  the  quiet  sky.  His  mind  was  scattered  for 
the  moment;  he  could  not  think  clearly. 

He  opened  his  door  and  stepped  over  the  log 
threshold,  letting  the  door  close  after  him  of  its 
own  weight.  The  hut  was  dark,  with  but  a  square 


394  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

of  dim  light  at  the  window.  He  fumbled  for 
the  candle  and  struck  a  light. 

There  was  a  low  rustle  from  the  corner. 
Menard  whirled  around  and  peered  into  the 
shadows.  The  candle  was  blowing ;  he  caught 
it  up  and  shielded  it  with  his  hand.  A  figure 
was  crouching  in  the  corner,  half  hidden  be- 
hind a  cloak  that  hung  there.  The  Captain 
sprang  forward  holding  the  candle  high,  tore 
down  the  cloak,  and  discovered  Teganouan,  the 
Onondaga,  bending  over  feeling  for  his  hatchet 
which  lay  on  the  floor  at  his  feet.  Menard 
caught  his  shoulders,  and  dragging  him  out  of 
reach  of  the  hatchet,  threw  him  full  length  on 
the  floor.  The  candle  dropped  and  rolled  on 
the  floor,  but  before  it  could  go  out,  Menard 
snatched  it  up. 

Slowly  Teganouan  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Teganouan  comes  in  a  strange  manner  to 
the  lodge  of  the  white  warrior,"  said  Menard, 
scornfully.  "  He  steals  in  like  a  Huron  thief, 
and  hides  in  dark  corners." 

The  Indian  looked  at  him  defiantly,  but  did 
not  answer. 

"  My  Onondaga  brother  does  not  wish  to 
show  himself  in  the  light.  Perhaps  there  is 
some  trouble  on  his  mind.  Perhaps  he  is  gov- 


FRONTENAC.  39S 

erned  by  an  evil  Oki  who  loves  the  darkness." 
While  Menard  was  speaking  he  was  moving 
quietly  toward  the  door.  The  Indian  saw,  but 
beyond  turning  slowly  so  as  always  to  face  his 
captor,  made  no  movement.  His  face,  except 
for  the  blazing  eyes,  was  inscrutable.  In  a  mo- 
ment Menard  stood  between  him  and  the  door. 
"  Perhaps  it  is  best  that  I  should  call  for  the 
warriors  of  the  fort.  They  will  be  glad  to  find 
here  the  slayer  of  their  brother."  His  hand  was 
on  the  latch. 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  will  not  call  to  his  broth- 
ers." The  Indian's  voice  was  calm.  Menard 
looked  closely  at  him.  "  He  has  not  thought 
yet.  When  he  has  thought,  he  will  understand." 

"  Teganouan  speaks  like  a  child." 

"  If  Teganouan  is  a  child,  can  the  Big  Buf- 
falo tell  why  he  came  to  the  white  man's 
lodge?" 

"  Because  he  has  slain  a  great  white  warrior, 
he  must  hide  his  face  like  the  outcast  dog." 
Menard  pointed  to  the  scalp  that  hung  at  his 
waist.  "  He  has  slain  a  great  warrior  while  the 
hatchet  lies  buried  in  the  ground.  He  has 
broken  the  law  of  the  white  man  and  the  red- 
man.  And  so  he  must  hide  his  face." 

"  Why  did  not  Teganouan  run  to  the  woods  ? 


396  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

Why  did  he  come  to  the  lodge  of  the  Big  Buf- 
falo?" 

Menard  looked  steadily  at  him.  He  began 
to  understand.  The  shrewd  old  warrior  had 
chosen  the  one  hiding-place  where  no  searching 
party  would  look.  Perhaps  he  had  hoped  for 
aid  from  the  Captain,  remembering  his  pledge 
to  bring  punishment  on  La  Grange.  If  so,  he 
should  learn  his  mistake. 

Teganouan's    words    are    idle."      Menard 
moved  the  latch. 

"  The  Big  Buffalo  will  not  open  the  door. 
Teganouan  has  not  delivered  his  message.  He 
is  not  an  enemy  to  the  Big  Buffalo.  He  is 
his  friend.  He  has  come  to  this  lodge,  caring 
nothing  for  the  safety  of  his  life,  that  he  might 
give  his  message.  The  Big  Buffalo  will  not 
open  the  door.  He  will  wait  to  hear  the 
words  of  Teganouan ;  and  then  he  may  call 
to  his  brother  warriors  if  he  still  thinks  it 
would  be  wise." 

Menard  waited. 

"  Speak  quickly,  Teganouan." 

"  Teganouan's  words  are  like  the  wind.  He 
has  brought  them  many  leagues,  —  from  the 
lodges  of  the  Onondagas,  —  that  he  may  speak 
them  now.  He  has  brought  them  from  the 


FRONTENAC.  397 

Long  House  of  the  Five  Nations,  where  the 
fires  burn  brightly  by  day  and  by  night,  where 
the  greatest  chiefs  of  many  thousand  warriors 
are  met  to  hear  the  Voice  of  the  Great  Moun- 
tain, the  father  of  white  men  and  redmen. 
The  Great  Mountain  has  a  strong  voice.,  It 
is  louder  than  cannon ;  it  wounds  deeper  than 
the  musket  of  the  white  brave.  It  tells  the 
Onondagas  and  Cayugas  and  Oneidas  and 
Mohawks  that  they  must  not  give  aid  to  their 
brothers,  the  Senecas,  who  have  fallen,  whose 
corn  and  forts  and  lodges  are  burned  to  ashes 
and  scattered  on  the  winds.  It  tells  the  Onon- 
dagas that  the  Great  Mountain  is  a  kind 
father,  that  he  loves  them  like  his  own  chil- 
dren, and  will  punish  the  man  who  wrongs 
them,  let  him  be  white  or  red.  It  tells  the 
Onondagas  that  the  white  captain,  who  has 
robbed  a  hundred  Onondaga  lodges  of  their 
bravest  hunters,  shall  be  struck  by  the  strong 
arm  of  the  Great  Mountain,  shall  be  blown  to 
pieces  by  the  Voice  that  thunders  from  the 
great  water  where  the  seal  are  found  to  the 
farthest  village  of  the  Five  Nations.  And 
the  chiefs  hear  the  Voice;  they  listen  with 
ears  that  are  always  open  to  the  counsel  of 
Onontio.  They  take  his  promises  into  their 


398  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

hearts  and  believe  them.  They  know  that  he 
will  strike  down  the  dog  of  a  white  captain. 
They  refuse  aid  to  their  dying  brothers,  the 
Senecas,  because  they  know  that  the  strong 
arm  of  Onontio  is  over  them,  that  it  will  give 
them  peace." 

He  paused,  gazing  with  bright  eyes  at  Me- 
nard.  There  was  no  reply,  and  he  continued :  — 

"  The  Great  Mountain  has  kept  his  word. 
The  Onondagas  shall  know,  in  their  council, 
that  Onontio's  promise  has  been  kept,  that 
the  white  brave,  who  lied  to  their  hunters  and 
sent  them  in  chains  across  the  big  water,  has 
gone  to  a  hunting-ground  where  his  musket 
will  not  help  him,  where  the  buffalo  shall 
trample  him  and  tear  his  flesh  with  their 
horns.  Then  the  Onondagas  shall  know  that 
the  Big  Buffalo  spoke  the  truth  to  the  Long 
House.  And  this  word  shall  be  carried  to  the 
Onondagas  by  Teganouan.  He  will  go  to  the 
council  with  the  scalp  in  his  hand  telling  them 
that  the  white  children  of  Onontio  are  their 
brothers.  Teganouan  sees  the  Big  Buffalo 
stand  with  his  strong  hand  at  the  door.  He 
knows  that  the  Big  Buffalo  could  call  his  war- 
riors to  seize  Teganouan,  and  bind  him,  and 
bid  him  stand  before  the  white  men's  muskets. 


FRONTENAC.  399 

But  Teganouan  is  not  a  child.  He  sees  with 
the  eye  of  the  old  warrior  who  has  fought  a 
battle  for  every  sun  in  the  year,  who  has 
known  the  white  man  as  well  as  the  redman. 
When  the  Big  Buffalo  stood  in  the  Long 
House,  Teganouan  believed  him;  Teganouan 
knew  that  his  words  were  true.  And  now  the 
heart  of  Teganouan  is  warm<with  trust.  He 
knows  that  the  Big  Buffalo  is  a  wise  warrior 
and  that  he  has  an  honest  heart." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Menard,  his  hand 
still  on  the  latch,  stood  motionless.  He  knew 
what  the  Indian  meant.  He  had  done  no 
more  than  Menard  himself  had  promised  the 
council,  in  the  name  of  Governor  Denonville, 
should  be  done.  The  lodges  of  the  allies  near 
the  fort  sheltered  many  an  Iroquois  spy ; 
whatever  might  follow  would  be  known  in 
every  Iroquois  village  before  the  week  had 
passed.  To  hold  Teganouan  for  trial  would 
mean  war. 

There  was  the  tramp  of  feet  on  the  beaten 
ground  without,  and  a  clear  voice  said :  — 

"  Wait  a  moment,  I  must  report  to  Captain 
Menard." 

Menard  raised  the  latch  an  inch,  then  looked 
sharply  at  Teganouan.  The  Indian  stood 


400  THE   ROAD  TO   FRONTENAC. 

quietly,  leaning  a  little  forward,  waiting  for 
the  decision.  The  Captain  was  on  the  point 
of  speaking,  but  no  word  came  from  his  parted 
lips.  The  voices  were  now  just  outside  the 
door.  With  a  long  breath  Menard's  fingers 
relaxed,  and  the  latch  slipped  back  into 
place.  Then  he  motioned  toward  the  wall 
ladder  that  reached  up  into  the  darkness  of 
the  loft. 

Teganouan  turned,  picked  up  the  hatchet 
and  thrust  it  into  his  belt,  took  one  quick 
glance  about  the  room  to  make  sure  that  no 
telltale  article  remained,  and  slipped  up  the 
ladder.  There  was  a  loud  knock  on  the 
door,  and  Menard  opened  it.  The  Lieutenant 
came  in. 

"  We  have  no  word  yet,  Captain,"  he  said. 
"  Every  building  in  the  fort  has  been  searched. 
I  have  so  few  men  that  I  could  not  divide  them 
until  this  was  done,  but  I  am  just  now  sending 
out  searching  parties  through  the  Indian  vil- 
lage and  the  forest.  None  of  the  canoes  are 
missing.  Have  I  your  approval  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  —  you  have  been  here  since  you  left 
the  hospital  ?  " 

"Yes." 


FRONTENAC.  401 

"  I  think,  then,  that  he  must  have  had  time  to 
slip  out  before  we  knew  of  it.  There  are  many 
Indians  here  who  would  help  him ;  but  a  few 
of  them  can  be  trusted,  I  think,  to  join  the 
search.  Major  d'Orvilliers  left  me  with  only 
a  handful  of  men.  It  will  be  difficult  to  ac- 
complish much  until  he  returns.  I  will  post  a 
sentry  at  the  sally-port ;  we  shall  have  to  leave 
the  bastions  without  a  guard.  I  think  it  will  be 
safe,  for  the  time." 

"  Very  well,  Lieutenant." 

The  Lieutenant  saluted  and  hurried  away. 
Menard  closed  the  door,  and  turned  to  the 
table,  where  were  scattered  the  sheets  on 
which  he  had  been  writing  his  report.  He 
collected  them  and  read  the  report  carefully. 
He  removed  one  leaf,  and  rolling  it  up,  lighted 
it  at  the  candle,  and  held  it  until  it  was  burned 
to  a  cinder.  Then  he  read  the  other  sheets 
again.  The  report  now  told  of  his  capture,  of 
a  part  of  the  council  at  the  Long  House,  and 
of  the  escape ;  but  no  word  was  there  concern- 
ing Captain  la  Grange.  Another  hand  had 
disposed  of  that  question.  Menard  sighed  as 
he  laid  it  down,  but  soon  the  lines  on  his  face 
relaxed.  It  was  not  the  first  time  in  the  his- 
tory of  New  France  that  a  report  had  told  but 


402  THE   ROAD   TO   FRONTENAC. 

half  the  truth;  and,  after  all,  the  column   had 
been  saved. 

He  sharpened  a  quill  with  his  sheath-knife, 
and  began  to  copy  the  report,  making  further 
corrections  here  and  there.  Something  more 
than  an  hour  had  passed  before  the  work  was 
finished.  He  rolled  up  the  document  and  tied 
it  with  a  thong  of  deerskin. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  evening,  but  the 
fort  was  as  silent  as  at  midnight.  Menard 
opened  the  door  and  walked  out  a  little  way. 
The  lamps  were  all  burning,  but  no  soldiers 
were  to  be  seen.  The  barrack  windows  were 
dark.  He  stepped  back  into  the  house,  closed 
the  door,  and  said  in  a  low  voice :  — 

"  Teganouan." 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  loft.  In  a  moment 
the  Indian  came  down  the  ladder  and  stood 
waiting. 

"  Teganouan,  you  heard  what  the  Lieutenant 
said?" 

"  Teganouan  has  ears." 

"  Very  well.  I  am  going  to  blow  out  the 
candle." 

The  room  was  dark.  The  door  creaked 
softly,  and  a  breath  of  air  blew  in  upon  the 
Captain  as  he  stood  by  the  table.  He  felt 


FRONTENAC.  403 

over  the  table  for  his  tinder-box  and  struck  a 
light.     The  door  was  slowly  closing;    Tegan- 

ouan  had  gone. 

***** 

Another  sun  was  setting.  A  single  drum 
was  beating  loudly  as  the  little  garrison  drew 
up  outside  the  sally-port  and  presented  arms. 
The  allies  and  the  mission  Indians  were  crowd- 
ing down  upon  the  beach,  silent,  inquisitive, — 
puffing  at  their  short  pipes.  For  half  a  league, 
from  the  flat,  white  beach  out  over  the  rose- 
tinted  water  stretched  an  irregular  black  line  of 
canoes  and  bateaux,  all  bristling  with  muskets. 
The  Governor  had  come.  He  could  be  seen 
kneeling,  all  sunburned  and  ragged  but  with 
erect  head,  in  the  first  canoe.  His  canoemen 
checked  their  swing,  for  the  beach  was  close 
at  hand,  and  then  backed  water.  The  bow 
scraped,  and  a  dozen  hands  were  outstretched 
in  aid,  but  Governor  Denonville  stepped  briskly 
out  into  the  ankle-deep  water  and  carried  his 
own  pack  ashore.  A  cheer  went  up  from  the 
little  line  at  the  sally-port.  Du  Luth's  voy- 
ageurs  and  coureur  de  bois  caught  it  up,  and 
then  it  swept  far  out  over  the  water  and  was 
echoed  back  from  the  forest. 

In  the  doorway  of  a  hut  near  the  Recollet 


404  THE    ROAD   TO    FRONTENAC. 

Chapel  stood  Menard  and  Valerie.  They 
watched  canoe  after  canoe  glide  up  and 
empty  its  load  of  soldiers,  not  speaking  as 
they  watched,  but  thinking  each  the  same 
thought.  At  last,  when  the  straggling  line 
was  pouring  into  the  fort,  and  the  bugles  were 
screaming,  and  the  drum  rolling,  Valerie  slipped 
her  hand  through  the  Captain's  arm  and 
looked  up  into  his  face. 

"  It  was  you  who  brought  them  here,"  she 
said ;  and  then,  after  a  pause,  she  laughed  a 
breathless  little  laugh.  "  It  was  you,"  she 
repeated. 


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